


Feed You the Sky

by pokeasleepingsmaug



Series: Feed You the Sky [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, F/M, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-10-17 02:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 26,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10584924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokeasleepingsmaug/pseuds/pokeasleepingsmaug
Summary: Ivar is king, and seeks to expand his kingdom. He will meet his destiny, but not in the way he thinks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea was shared with me by the wonderful @shesafreesoul on Tumblr! It's a wonderful idea and I'm so grateful she gave me the chance to write it!

Ivar studied the map carefully. “Do we know the outcome of the raid on this town yet?” He pointed to a spot near the far border of the kingdom that bordered his. “They are a small kingdom and we should have no problem defeating them, especially while the troops are off on this raid. If we move quickly, we can probably get there before them and seize their throne. But if their troops come back flush with victory, it will be harder. Still, I am not worried.”

His brother Ubbe shook his head. “We have heard nothing yet, Ivar.” Ubbe had long ago given up his claim on the kingship, stating plainly that he had no desire for ruling. He knew Ivar would be a better leader, more cunning and fearless, but he was happy to help whenever Ivar called upon him. He was the staunchest of Ivar's friends, but he was happiest on his farm, with his wife Margarethe and their three small children. He was a simple, honest man who loved the feeling of accomplishment after a good day's work. But still, Ivar knew, sometimes he itched for battle, for the heady rush of power brought by taking a life, and he always came to fight at Ivar's side.

Ivar clasped a fond hand on his older brother's shoulder, nodding. “I have made my decision. We leave immediately, and with luck we will reach their city in two days time.” He wrinkled his brow, thinking. “Do we have word of where the princess is?”

Ubbe thought for a moment. “No. Do you remember when she came to Kattegat with her father when she was young? She was very lovely, and probably long since married off. She is no concern, I am almost certain. If she were, we would have heard of her by now.” 

Ivar nodded, satisfied. “Good. We leave as soon as possible. Tell the chieftains.” Ubbe strode off, leaving Ivar alone in the great hall of Kattegat. He drained the horn of mead sitting by his elbow and glanced at the rough map one more time. His brother Bjorn who ruled over another neighboring kingdom had drawn it for him. Ever since he discovered the map of the Mediterranean, Bjorn had taken to exploring and drawing maps of the places he found. His sketches were crude, since his strong hands were made for swinging swords, and because he had never learned to draw as a child, not really. But still they were helpful, and Ivar was happy his wandering brother had taken the time to make it for him. 

He lowered himself to the floor, crawling to the chamber behind the hall where he kept his weapons. His leather armor was there, polished and gleaming with oil, smooth and supple to the touch. He loved the feel of all things to do with battle—the way the handle of his favorite ax melded to his grip, the reassuring weight of his armor, the spray of blood on his face. He sighed longingly. He was a little past his middle twenties now, and he had learned in the three or so years of his kingship to hide the bloodlust and the clever anger beneath a veneer of reason. He liked to think it made him even more dangerous than before—the impetuous, ill-tempered boy had grown into a wise, canny ruler. But still those things hummed ever in his blood, reminding him of who he really was. The need to prove himself still whispered in his mind, even though his people were happy under his rule.

He led them on raids every summer, throwing gold and silver at his men like he himself hated the precious metals, and they prospered. They fought for him happily, their taste for battle and for riches and glory satisfied, but still Ivar found himself wanting more. More land, more men. It was time not just for raids, but to lead an army of conquest like he and his brothers had in Wessex. This time, though, it was only himself in charge, and he rather liked that feeling of control. Nobody to fight with, nobody to question his wisdom. Only Ubbe, who was ever honest with him. Of all his brothers, he loved and respected Ubbe the most. 

He pulled his leather armor down from its peg and drew it on, tightening the straps to make it fit like a second skin. He felt the most at home in his armor, more himself than any other time in his life. He strapped his shield over his back, running a hand over the beautiful knotwork painted around the edge. It had saved his life countless times, painted by the clever fingers of his friend Floki. Next to come to his hand was his favorite ax, the one he had carried into every battle. The handle had molded itself to his grip, simply becoming a part of him over the years. He also strapped a sword to his hip. Although he much preferred his ax, he could wield a sword at least as well as any other man, and besides he liked carrying many weapons. A dagger was the next, strapped to his thigh. He had a bow and a quiver full of straight, fine arrows, too. They would sit beside him in his chariot.

A dangerous man, a skilled fighter proficient with all the weapons a man might need on the field of battle, and a large army loyal to him and him alone. Yes, this kingdom would be easy to conquer. A flash of anticipation shocked through him as he went to check his horse and chariot. He was eager to be off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here, we meet the mysterious princess Ivar and Ubbe discussed in the first chapter.

Kára inspected the smoking ruins of the town from the back of her black mare. She was satisfied with what she saw. A line of women and children, covered in the ash of their homes, straggled toward the treeline. She had ordered her men to let the women and children go, leaving them free to rebuild their lives. It was only the men she was after here, the ones loyal to her father's enemy, Jarl Eystein. The snake had sworn loyalty to her father a mere year before, and now he incited rebellion among the villagers. 

He had been hiding here, sheltered by a supporter of his. Her father was an old man now, the old ragged scar on his left leg made it drag when he walked, and the damp cold of fall and winter settled itself in his creaking bones. Fighting was no longer for him, and he had no sons, only one daughter. She had been leading small bands of her father's men on raids for a few years now, but this was her largest and most critical battle, and it had gone well. Maybe her namesake, that famous Valkyrie from the old legends, did indeed watch over her.

It had been her favorite story as a girl, settling herself on her father's knee and begging him to tell it to her again. He always laughed, ruffling her hair, and obliged her. “My dear girl,” he would begin, “you are named for the bravest of Valkyries. The storms came at her call, and she was wild as the wind of the north. That is why I named you for her. The moment you opened your eyes, I saw the wildness in you.” He would pause here, kissing her long red hair. “But she was different from her sisters. Kára fell in love with a mortal man named Helgi, and she used her strength to make him victorious in every battle he fought. And you, my Kára, will strengthen any man you choose to bind yourself to.”

She smiled fondly at the memory, thinking how glad her father would be when she returned home and told him of her victory here. She had found Eystein and gutted him herself. She had then hacked his head off roughly with her ax and tossed it to Brynjar, her mother's brother. He was a seasoned warrior, and that experience made him invaluable as she learned the art of the raid. 

He rode toward her now, and she could see the burlap sack containing Eystein's head thumping against his horse's flank to the beat of his trot. He grinned at her as he pulled his horse to a stop beside her. “Kára. Your men fought well today. You did, too. Your father will be proud of you when you give him Eystein's head.” He paused, glancing at the leaden sky. His voice was gruff as he continued. “Your mother was a great shieldmaiden. You have her heart for battles.”

“Thank you, uncle.” Kára inclined her head, grateful. Her mother had died of a fever when she was small, and neither her father nor uncle spoke of her often. Her heart warmed to be compared to her. She stretched in the saddle, her dominant shoulder a little sore from the earlier battle. She had overextended her reach on a few ax-swings, and the screaming shoulder was not happy with her. “We will camp here tonight, and start home in the morning. Tell the men to make themselves comfortable. Any who need healing should get it, and I will be giving gifts to the men tonight, too, to thank them for their valor and loyalty.”

“Wise of you, Kára. Your father forgets to show his appreciation for his men sometimes. That is what led to Eystein's betrayal. You have shown that treachery will be punished, but also that loyalty will be rewarded. If you remember this when you take your father's throne, you will do well.”

He started to wheel his horse away, but Kára stopped him. “Brynjar.” She hesitated as he turned to her. “Do you think my father's mind is going soft? He was always generous with his men until the bad harvest a few years ago.”

Her uncle sighed. “I am not certain. What I do know is that when his people needed his generosity the most, he was unwilling to give it. I hope you will not repeat his mistakes someday.” She nodded, and he left to fulfill her orders. Kára jumped lightly from her horse and led her to the grassy area where her men had picketed their horses to graze. She tied her with the others and removed her saddle and bridle before going to divide the loot to gift to her warriors. She swelled with pride in them as she inspected the treasures they had found here. It was a simple farming village, but there was enough silver gained to keep the men happy. They would return home drunk on victory and a little richer than when they had departed, and what more could men ask for?


	3. Chapter 3

Ivar rode at the front of his warriors, his brother Ubbe at his side. He was surprised to find himself longing for his younger days, for leading the great army like a storm upon the Saxons with all of his brothers. As always, a pang of deep regret flashed through him at the thought of Sigurd, but he pushed it aside. This was not the time for weakness. He was a son of Ragnar Lothbrok, and a king himself now. There was no room for weakness in his life. 

He pushed these heavy things, these weaknesses, aside. This was a time for focus. The seat of King Egil's kingdom was in sight now, dawn breaking over it and bathing it in soft gold. Smoke drifted lazily from cooking fires, and he could just see the earliest stirrings beginning. They would be preparing their breakfasts now, maybe feeding their livestock. 

He had pushed his men hard, kept them riding deep into the night and roused them again hours before dawn. They were tired, he knew, but the bloodlust that sang through him allowed no delay. He hungered for the warm stickiness of blood on his face, the jarring in his arm from blocking a lethal strike. He craved the rush of godlike power from delivering a killing blow.

The old familiar anger, his constant companion for as long as he could remember, simmered in his blood. He took those earlier regrets and channeled them into it. He would use them, turn his weakness into strength as he always did. The simmer turned to a rolling boil, ready to be unleashed. When it came upon him like this, there was no end to what he could achieve. 

Ivar raised his ax with a savage howl, urging his horse forward, and set about destroying the peace of Egil's city. It was a large city, with strong fortifications, but it was lightly defended. Ivar knew most of Egil's troops were off on a raid somewhere, led by a man named Brynjar. His spies had returned nothing about the result of the raid, but he knew they would not be returning for a day or two, at the very soonest. This would be an easy morning's work.

Arrows rained down from the top of the walls, but they bounced harmlessly off his shield. “I am Ivar the Boneless, King of Kattegat and son of Ragnar Lothbrok, and you will open your gates and fight me like true men!” He buried the blade of his ax deep in the wooden walls, furious the gates would not open to him. 

He wrenched his ax free as the gates swung outward, some violent god answering the prayer in his heart for bloodshed. It was not a smart move on Egil's part, but the small voice of reason in Ivar's head, the part that thought this must be a trap, was easy to ignore over the roaring of his blood in his veins. He would take this kingdom and make it part of his own. He would paint his face with the blood of King Egil and sit on his throne. He would lead the warriors of his enemy to victory once they were loyal to him, and he would drain every drop of blood from those who stood in his way. 

Ivar's forces easily outnumbered King Egil's, and Ivar felt a momentary rush of disappointment. He knew this was a small kingdom and that most of its warriors were gone, but still he itched for a long, fierce battle. This one would be too easy. He turned to inspect his forces, cold blue eyes calculating. “Ubbe. Split the troops in half. Half will fight with us, and the rest will wait in reserve.”

Ubbe's light blue eyes were incredulous, and he sputtered in confusion. “But... Ivar, this will be an easy battle. King Egil's lands and wealth will belong to you before the morning ends.”

“It will be too easy. Men will fear me more if they hear how I conquered Egil with only half of my forces. And even this,” he waved a careless hand at the warriors assembled behind him, “is only a quarter of the forces I could muster, if I wanted. No. Men will say Ivar the Boneless commands a huge army, but that he is so fierce he needs only a small part of his entire force.” The look in his eyes was the primal anger Ubbe hadn't seen there since Ivar became king, and his voice was a growl. “I thirst for blood, Ubbe, and I will not share it with a man more than I need to.”

“Ivar, do you not think this is a trap? What man in his right mind, when outnumbered, would open his city gates?”

Ivar shrugged. “I do not care about his motivations, only about my victory.” He turned away from Ubbe, leaving his brother to deliver the order. Shaking his head in silent disapproval, Ubbe delivered the order to the chieftains. They were fighting men all, and those selected to wait in reserve were understandably angry.

With his selected fighters at his back, Ivar drove his chariot straight toward the approaching forces. Their number was pitifully small against his, but Ivar didn't care. Battle-hunger raged in him, sweet and irrestible as a siren's song, and he would gladly drown himself in a sea of hot blood if only he could taste its salt and iron on his thirsty lips. 

The slaughter was quick and thorough, barely enough to satisfy him, but that didn't matter. Ubbe had found King Egil among the army, and he at least had killing the king to look forward to. He would sit on the man's throne, hands still warm and sticky with his blood. The thought made him almost giddy. He rested the full weight of his gaze on the old king, and saw him quail. Ivar knew he could be a frightening sight, but he was too far gone in the battle-haze to really control himself now. A brutal death would be the best way to satisfy himself, to slake the rage threatening to eat him raw. 

King Egil stood straight-backed, meeting his eyes squarely. His leather armor was old and ill-fitted, but had probably fit him when he was a young man. He knew the old man hadn't fought in many years, not since he took a wound in his leg. What Viking king didn't fight? This man didn't deserve to be king. Only the strong deserved that honor. Ivar was strong, despite the cruel way the gods crafted him. How dare this man call himself a king? He was a pretender. Ivar seethed.

The ax in his hand cried for the blood of the king, and Ivar could resist it no longer. He let it fly, screaming like a berserk, and he could almost feel the ax's satisfied sigh as it buried itself in the old man's ribs. He fell, losing his sword, and Ivar slithered toward him. He sat over the fallen king, leering, and ripped his ax free of the flesh. He dipped one hand in the fountain of blood bubbling from the gaping wound, and dragged his crimson fingers down his face.

The old man seemed to look through him. “Kára,” he croaked. Ivar shuddered, strangely satisfied by that one word. He had seen the life leave countless men, but none had ever called the name of the Valkyrie who came to collect them. 

He nodded, savoring the strange chill that licked up his spine. “Yes, old man. Kára comes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note on Kára's name. I found it on a list of names of Valkyries. It means "the wild and stormy one." Ivar thinks Kára is the Valkyrie that has come to collect Egil.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ivar's accidental prediction comes true, and Kára comes to the city.

Kára stood in her stirrups as she crested the hill, straining for a glimpse of the city. She could just see it on the horizon, and excitement tingled through her limbs. Her father would be so glad the rebellion had been quelled. Maybe it would silence the talk of weddings. It was only recently that he had begun to pressure her, although she had refused every man who came seeking her hand. Egil had indulged this behavior at first, but she could tell his patience was wearing thin. Maybe this would prove to him she could still lead his armies for a few years more. She knew men came courting her largely because of the kingdom she would inherit someday, and she refused to be traded like a prized broodmare.

She turned to her uncle beside her, a wide grin stretching her mouth. He quirked his brows at her, waiting. This was their custom. “Race you to the gate!” Kára challenged. He kicked his horse into a gallop, leaving Kára cursing and laughing as she urged her mare forward. The willing creature stretched her legs eagerly, despite how tired she must have been. The little horse did love a good run. 

The wind tore the laughter from her lips, her auburn braids streaming out behind her. The gate was growing rapidly larger as she leaned over the bay mare's neck, but suddenly Brynjar slowed his horse. Kára, bewildered, did the same. Had his horse taken a wrong step and lamed himself? Brynjar dropped back to ride beside her. His manner was one of forced casualness. “Niece. What do you see?”

She forced herself to breathe, to act like her world wasn't spinning. “Those men are not my father's. The shields lining the tops of the walls are not the same ones as when we left.” 

Brynjar nodded. “Veer off, as if you are searching for herbs or something. Go back to the warriors and wait with them. I will try to enter the city and see what I can find out. I will come to you as soon as I can.” 

“Odin protect you, uncle.” Kára urged her horse to turn aside, cutting a meandering path toward the stream. The mare snorted, shaking her head. She wanted her stable and her hay. Once she was far enough away, she urged the mare into a canter. She reluctantly obeyed. Muscles singing with anxiety, it seemed to take forever until she was reunited with her band of warriors. 

They knew something was wrong as soon as they saw her. Kára and Brynjar always met them laughing at the gates, the people of the city crowding around to welcome their men and women home. Tension thrummed through them, a tangible thing, the air as charged as a lightning strike. Kára felt as if the lightning was in her mouth, her words capable of starting fires. “The shields along the top of the city walls do not belong to men loyal to King Egil. Brynjar has gone to see what he can find out. We will wait for him here until nightfall.” She hoped it would not take that long. 

The grim-faced men before her settled themselves in the grass to wait. There was nothing else they could do, not until they knew what was going on. She jumped from her mare and loosened the saddle's girth to make her more comfortable. Kára walked among her warriors. These men and women, they trusted her, and as much as the waiting tormented her, she would not lead them into an unknown situation. She stopped every few feet to exchange murmured words with small clusters of men and women. The lightning still flickering through her didn't allow her to sit still.

She paced restlessly through her band of quiet warriors, finally coming up with something to do. “Magnhild,” she called softly to one of her shieldmaidens. “We are going to the top of the hill to watch for Brynjar.” Magnhild nodded, and Kára appraised her. “Borrow a brown cloak from someone.” It took only a few moments for someone to offer Magnhild a brown cloak, and the two women started up the hill. When they neared the top, they lay on their bellies and pulled themselves up the rest of the way with their arms, keeping their silhouettes small.

Kára would have found this relaxing, under different circumstances. She and Magnhild had been friends since childhood, and the late morning sun was warm on her back as she rested her chin on the backs of her hands. Her hazel eyes were riveted to the city, but she could see no movement except the watchers on the walls. She couldn't see the pattern on the shields clearly from here, but she hadn't recognized any of them from her cursory inspection earlier. She burned to know what happened in her absence. 

It felt like the seasons had changed many times, but in reality the sun had only shifted a few degrees to the west when a lone rider left the gate. She held her breath, fingers gripping Magnhild's arm so hard she heard the other woman hiss. Magnhild's hand found her own, squeezing lightly. The rider made toward the stream, and as he got closer Kára recognized Brynjar's favorite stallion. She tugged on Magnhild's arm, and together they inched slowly back down the hill. When they were far enough down to be blocked from the city, they stood. Kára took off running toward the stream. Magnhild followed silently, her footsteps slowly becoming quieter as she couldn't keep up. 

Kára threw herself at her uncle's horse, and the stallion nearly reared up in shock, but Brynjar soothed him almost thoughtlessly. Her stomach clenched at the stony expression in his eyes as he dismounted and handed the reins to a panting Magnhild. “Tend my horse, I must speak to the princess.” Magnhild led the horse toward the rest of the warriors, and Brynjar gripped both of Kára's arms in his hands, holding her steady. 

“Your father is dead and your rightful throne sat upon by a man named Ivar the Boneless. He is the king of Kattegat, and seeks to expand his lands.” Kára blinked slowly, too shocked to say anything. Surely the sky was beneath her feet, and the earth above her head. Only in a world like that would her uncle's words make any sense. “Kára. You are the queen now. I will do everything I can to help you regain your throne.”

She shook her head, stepping back. “No. Father?” 

He nodded slowly. “I am sorry, Kára. The city is buzzing with the news. It was an ax-blow by Ivar the Boneless that felled him. He died with his sword in his hand and his armor on his back. They say he called to a Valkyrie as he died.”

She began to shake. Father never should have been left so lightly defended. Even if his mind really had started to soften with age just as his body had, he'd still been her father. And she had heard tales of this Ivar the Boneless. A man so cruel, so ruthless, that he had been born cursed by the gods—useless legs, but a mind so keen he rivaled Odin himself. It was said he was descended from the Allfather, but that made him only more despicable. Those of Odin's line should be noble, carry themselves with the utmost grace, and instead this man was forced to slither in the dirt like the snake he was. 

Steeling herself, Kára drew herself up to her full height. “I will regain my throne, Uncle. I cannot allow this monster to rule my people. I will protect them at any cost.” 

…..

Kára crept slowly forward in the dark, both cursing and grateful for the clouds that covered the moon. She, Magnhild, and Aki moved largely by feel and memory. They had found the stream by listening for its babble, and now they were at the thick wooden posts that allowed the stream to flow into the city unobstructed. There were three vertical posts extending from the wall to the bottom of the stream, and three horizontal posts across them. There was a guard tower not too far off, and this part of the plan depended largely on luck.

If the invader's troops had found this weakness, if guards were posted near enough to hear the swing of her ax hitting the wood, all was lost before it even began. They would be captured and killed, probably tortured first, if the rumors about Ivar the Boneless were true. At this moment, she rather wished this usurper were called Ivar the Brainless. She would take a stupid, strong opponent over an intelligent, weak-bodied one every time. Her father had told her time and time again that a smart man was a dangerous one.

Kára freed her ax from her belt, whispered a desperate plea to any god who might be listening, and struck her first blow. The ax hit with a resounding crack, and the three of them huddled together, breathless. She could see no movement on the walls above, no shouting to indicate she had been heard. She reached out to inspect the damage with her fingers. One, maybe two, more blows, and she would be through the first post. With another prayer came another blow. The post splintered, and she pushed it aside with her hand. They needed a wider hole to squeeze through. 

She mentally cursed herself for having chosen Aki. He was one of her best warriors, but he was not a small man. Brynjar had begged to come, but she refused him. If anything happened to her, it would fall to him to take her throne, protect her people from this monster, and avenge her death. Throwing caution to the wind, she began raining swift blows on the cross-hatch of posts. They were thick, meant to withstand this type of punishing treatment, but they were old. Maybe the gods were on her side after all. 

Finally she had a hole large enough even for Aki to wiggle through. She climbed into the stream and turned herself sideways to wade through the makeshift entrance. The cold, swift water reached to her waist, and she threw the pack she carried to the bank before her. She clambered ashore and opened the pack, taking out the dry breeches and boots they'd packed. She changed swiftly as Magnhild and Aki followed her through the hole, and they took their fresh clothes from her and changed out of their soaked ones. Aki hefted the pack onto his shoulder, and they started into the city. 

Aki led the way to his house, where they would sleep until morning. Nothing could be done until then, anyway. It was quiet in the city, and Kára worried they would meet guards. Probably there was a lighter watch at night, but if this Ivar were as smart as the stories said, she had reason to worry. Aki knocked loudly on the door to his home, and a fretful wail could be heard from within. The door opened a moment later, Aki's disheveled wife holding an infant at her breast, and with a terrified cry she drew her husband into the house and slammed the door behind him. 

Kára and Magnhild waited only a few seconds before a sheepish Aki opened the door to admit them. “My wife panicked, I'm sorry.”Kára waved off his apology. “Sleep by the fire, princess. Magnhild can sleep beside you.” He gestured at the pile of furs by the hearth, and Kára felt her body suddenly grow heavy and slow as lead. She burrowed into the furs immediately, boots still on.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ivar and Kára finally meet.

Ivar hated his new throne. It was tall, climbing into it with his useless legs was basically an undiginifed scrabble, but still he managed. It was a throne that had obviously belonged to an old man—he had thrown the cushion on the seat into the fire immediately. Thrones were meant to threaten, to intimidate, to remind those in the room who held the power.

And in that respect, he loved his new throne. It was simple wood, tall, and with a high, arching back. There were carvings along the arch on the top and on the arms—Huginn on one arm and Muginn on the other, Odin's ravens who represent thought and memory. What better carvings for a throne? Thor's hammer was carved along the entire back, the leaves of it cascading down along the sides in careful knotwork. The hammer's handle was the length of the entire back, and when he sat on it, the blades of the hammer showed over his head like the blessing of the thunder god himself. It was a beautiful throne. 

He sat on it now, Ubbe on a regular-sized chair before him. “I will send small raiding parties to deliver the news of the change of kings here. If any resist,” Ivar shrugged one shoulder, nonchalant, “they will be killed. Rebellion will be squashed before it even takes root.” His logic was simple and ruthless, the logic of fear and strength.

Ubbe hummed, shaking his head. “That is too much, Ivar. Show them mercy at first. The name of Ivar the Boneless already commands fear wherever it is heard. Do not turn that cruelty to your own people, that is not the way to earn loyalty.”

“Loyalties can be swayed, brother. A fearful man is an obedient one.”

“A fearful man is no more than a slave. Would you rather have an army of men willing to die for you because you command their loyalty, or an army of men who fight only out of fear? Fear is the killer of courage, especially when the warrior fears his own king. Those men will not die for you, they will desert you and turn to your enemies. Men seek mercy, brother, and a wise king knows when to give it.”

Ivar sighed, reluctant to admit that Ubbe may have been right this time. “Alright. None shall be killed yet. But when I send the messengers, they will still be armed and dressed as if for battle.”

Ubbe laughed. “So be it. Would you like me to select the men to go?”

Ivar was about to answer, but a shout from outside drew his attention. The thick walls of the hall muffled most sounds, but if he strained his ears he could barely pick up the sounds of a brutal scuffle outside. Ubbe was already up, halfway to the door, when it flew open in a violent rush of wind and golden sunlight. The auburn-haired woman who entered surely must have been born of a winter storm, her movements containing all the strength of one born to die in a shield wall, and surely she had come to take him to Valhalla.

He would die a thousand deaths, laughter on his lips, if only those were the arms that embraced him each time. Her dark auburn hair was pulled back in frayed braids that she had clearly slept in, splotches of dark pink on her high cheekbones, fair face reddened with what was obviously fury. Hazel eyes bored into him forcefully, smothering him the way too strong of a winter wind could make him feel like he couldn't draw a full breath.

She hurled her ax toward him, barely taking the time to aim, and it thudded into the throne a few inches from his cheek. He allowed himself a moment of weakness, just a heartbeat of awestruck wonder at her skill. “I am Kára Egilsdottir, and you are sitting on my throne.”

He couldn't even stop the mocking laugh that barked from his throat. Of course. Kára, the old man had said. Not a Valkyrie, his daughter. He steeled himself, remembering who he was. Ivar the Boneless. Ruthless and cunning and strong and underestimated. He had fought every day of his life just to prove himself worthy of his father. This woman—however lovely—was nothing. He was ruthless, he had no time for weakness of any kind. And this woman, she made him feel weak. He channeled that into anger, as he always did, and he smirked coolly at her. “Yours, is it? I believe I claimed it when I sat on it with your father's blood on my face.”

The screech that ripped from her pink lips was almost inhuman, the shrieking of a winter wind on a dark night, and she ran for him, already reaching for the sword at her hip. Ubbe was fast, though, and he pounced on her from behind like a fox on its prey. He had her pinned but he was struggling to hold her, she was small and agile, wriggling beneath him like a slippery silver fish. Her eyes found his again, burning with hatred, and he felt strangely aroused. She was like him, a creature of passion barely contained by the bounds of reason—at least from what he had seen of her. “I challenge you to single combat for the throne of my father. One of us dies, and the other rules.” She spat the words at him like a snake spitting poison, and he wasn't fast enough to dodge it. 

His heart raced, and he nodded a wordless acceptance, afraid his voice would betray him if he spoke. Maybe she was a Valkyrie after all, because she seemed intent on carrying him to his death. Not that he could blame her, considering the circumstances.

…....

Kára cursed at the angle of the sunlight coming through the window of Aki's house. She had wanted to be awake and already confronting Ivar long before this. Aki, startled at her annoyance, had stammered an apology and explained he thought she needed sleep. And then his wife tried to offer her breakfast. Breakfast. As if she could eat right now, knowing full well there was a good chance it would be her last breakfast. 

Magnhild had finally convinced her to take some bread, and she nibbled at it as the three of them made their way across the city. Aki's house was a mile or so from the hall, and they had already discussed the plan. Her nervous stomach initially protested at the bread's intrusion, but she soon found the food steadied her. Magnhild shoved a waterskin into her hand, and she drank gratefully. 

They walked in tense silence, faces down to avoid being recognized. Kára could see the guards walking along the tops of the wall and her stomach clenched again as she wondered what had become of the men left here when she went raiding. They were probably all in Valhalla now, loyal to her father even in death. In order to not draw too much attention, none of their group of three carried shields. That would be too obvious that they were expecting a fight. Instead they were all armed in a fairly normal way—sword on one hip and ax on the other, a few small knives cleverly concealed. Kára herself carried two—one in her left boot and one at the small of her back, held in place by the same weapon-belt that secured her ax and sword.

She had known this usurper would have guards outside the door of the hall, but still she was disappointed to see them. She knew their strategy was sound, but she would hate to miss out on this fight. Aki and Magnhild would fight the guards, allowing her to enter the building. They had known it was possible Ivar the Boneless might have posted dozens of guards outside, but Kára was relieved to see only two, one on each side of the door. She wondered if it was a show of arrogance, if he believed he was safe behind his reputation as ruthless. She would show him that he should have been more fearful.

The guards hailed them with a shout, brandishing their swords as Kára led her two warriors forward. She would prove to him that loyalty was far stronger than fear. They were upon the guards now; Magnhild whirled left but the guard blocked her ax with his shield. Steel clashed as Aki's sword met the other guard's, and Kára hurtled herself into the door far harder than she needed to, but she wanted her entrance to be dramatic, her final acts worthy of the sagas.

She was nearly blinded by the darkness in the hall, but she could have walked this entire city with her eyes closed. There were only two men in the hall, one striding quickly toward her in her periphery, but she only saw the man sitting on her father's throne. 

And curse the cruelty of the gods, he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Even through her hatred, she appreciated the high planes of his cheekbones, the strong jawline, and the blue eyes that pierced her heart like an arrow. Surely he would be her death, this Ivar the Boneless, and she found herself thanking the gods for that. Only he would kill her, she would allow no one else the honor of spilling her blood.

Refusing to let him know the power he had over her, she aimed her ax at a spot just beside his head. Let him think she would be the one to end his life, although she knew the opposite was the truth. “I am Kára Egilsdottir, and you are sitting on my throne.” She hoped he didn't catch the wobble in her voice on the word my, but he must have. He laughed, a sound that tightened her chest like being held under the surface of a half-frozen lake.

“Yours, is it?” His voice was smooth and sweet like cool mead, and she was in the mood to get drunk and do something dangerous. “I believe I claimed it when I sat on it with your father's blood on my face.” Now she was drunk, and here came the danger. She screamed, almost involuntary, simply giving voice to an animal impulse she didn't fully comprehend—rage and sadness and the certainty of death, a twisted desire. Her death was coming, she was drunk on it, she could taste it in his voice, and she longed for it, for the violent sweetness of Valhalla. She was ready to face him, and she made her move now.

Only to be stopped, pinned to the ground. It sobered her, left her with a hollow ache in her bones. She fought it, fought the man pinning her, yearning again for her drunken and deadly desire. There was only one way to reach it again. She had to hear his voice, had to throw her body at him and let him take her life as many ways as his savage mind could dream up. “I challenge you to single combat for the throne of my father. One of us rules, and the other dies.” She barely recognized the ferocity in her own voice, and she was glad it didn't betray her weakness. 

He only nodded, and with that, she finally stopped struggling. She would be going home soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar and Kára fight for the throne of King Egil. It ends.... unexpectedly.

The man who had pinned her—Ubbe—walked beside her on their way to the training grounds behind the hall, as if he feared she would go back on her word. Kára walked straight-backed and haughty, ignoring him. It was only when they reached the fight arena marked by the hazel rods that something in her broke. It wasn't the sight of the boundary markers that moved her, almost brought tears of pride to her eyes.

Magnhild and Aki waited there, both streaked in blood, arms bound tightly behind their backs and surrounded by a full dozen of Ivar's warriors. They were alive. Her heart sang within her chest, and she gave them the most confident smile she could muster. It wasn't easy, knowing she walked to her death, but she wanted them to be proud of her, to tell her uncle that she walked to her death smiling with joy. 

Ubbe caught her smile and quirked his eyebrows. “Your warriors fought very bravely before they were subdued.” He paused for a beat. “You have more like them?” She carried on ignoring him with a toss of her fiery hair. How dare he speak to her like she would betray her own people? She stepped within the confines of the hazel rods without breaking stride, and stopped at the far side to wait for her opponent to enter.

Ivar looked up at her, a smirk playing coyly with his lovely mouth. Kára could see darkness in his eyes, the anticipation of blood, and in response her own excitement grew. She would die, but she would die gloriously. “Weapons only. Ax, sword, and knives are permitted. No shields, since you do not have one.” He smiled up at her, and the expression would have turned her knees to jelly in another circumstance. “To the death.” He seemed to savor the words, the way they left his lips like an incantation that summoned the winged women. 

“Begin.” Ubbe's voice was grim, but neither Kára nor Ivar wasted a single breath. Both went for their axes, and Kára dodged the savage swing at her knees to deliver a downward chop that Ivar easily rolled away from. She had never fought a man like this before, and was surprised at the speed he was able to summon using just his arms. Swinging downward was harder to recover from than a normal strike. Decision made, she dropped to her knees to fight him on his level.

The surprise and unexpected warmth in his deep blue eyes nearly engulfed her, but Kára focused instead on the blood singing in her veins, the breath rushing into her lungs, and found herself in the familiarity of those feelings. Ivar the Boneless was her enemy; the killer of her father and the usurper of her throne. Vengeance was all that mattered; vengeance or a death worthy of entry to Odin's hall. There was no other way. 

She drove her sword toward him in a tight arc aimed at his ribs, but his sword was there to block it. Immediately he stabbed the point at her belly; she twisted hers to redirect it. Their blades scraped along each other with a faint screech, raising the hair on the back of her neck. She took advantage of the moment he needed to regain control, and chopped quickly toward his arm. The blade connected, but the angle kept the cut shallow. It still would hurt, though, and blood loss would tire him quicker. 

He swung at her more out of instinct than anything, and the flat of his sword hit her side in a crushing blow that knocked the breath from her. Her ribs screamed, and she knew her end was coming now. She could not fight like this for much longer, not when every breath was ice and fire. At least one rib had cracked under his sword. She had known from the moment she first met those beautiful, terrible eyes that they would be her last sight. Her end was near. She could taste it, felt herself swirling along in a haze of pain and longing. Still, she would fight until the very end and make her father proud.

Ivar lunged for her, and she blocked the ax with her own. What she didn't see coming was his fist. It crashed into her cheekbone, sliding along it to crunch against her nose with a noise like a melon smashing. The rush of blood was instant and heavy, and she couldn't stop the reflexive welling of tears in her eyes. She ignored them, though, whipping the small knife from her left boot and plunging downward toward Ivar's neck. 

He ducked to one side and the blade bit into his shoulder instead, but still she tore it viciously through his flesh. The sharpness of the small blade created a clean but deep cut, and his blood spilled hot and slick over her hand. Blood for blood, and the lust for more of it screamed in her bones. She couldn't help herself. She freed the knife and quickly licked a finger, savoring the taste of his life—sweet and salty, it seemed to burn its way through her. The flame of him settled somewhere deep in her core, and she moaned at the sweetness of it. She was ready to face her death, now that she was drunk on him.

The ax in his hand suddenly fell to the ground. “Marry me,” he croaked, grasping desperately at her hands. “Marry me, Kára, and we will rule together.” His words shocked her so much she dropped the knife, still wet with his blood. She wanted only to taste him again, wanted it even more than she wanted Valhalla. But even still, she hesitated. To marry him was to admit defeat, to submit to him. But to marry him was also to tame him, to protect her people from this savage monster who wanted to conquer them. And humming along above that, the tone of it rising until it drowned all other thoughts, she still wanted only to taste him again.

The force of her need consumed her, and she lowered her head to lap at the blood still flowing from the wound she had sliced into his shoulder. The taste of him carried her away in a warm, tingling current of ecstasy. He moaned; the decision was easy with that sweetness on her tongue and his voice in her ears.“Yes. I will marry you, Ivar.” With that he kissed her, and all she tasted was the mingling of their blood in her mouth, sweeter and stronger than any mead. 

…...

Ivar followed his brother and the woman, making his way to the hazel rods. He let the bloodlust fill him as it always did; he reveled in it. This was when he was his truest self, in those moments of clarity and excitement leading to certain bloodshed. He knew, though, that this time would be different. Kára would send him to Valhalla, and when she joined him there at the end of her life, he would greet her as his only true equal. 

He watched her walk, the graceful sway of her hips and the bouncing of her muscular ass, and found himself grateful that such a magnificent creature would be the one to send him off. She stepped into the hazel rods and waited for him, but he didn't make her wait long. She would want to savor his death: her vengeance for the death of her father and the reclaiming of her throne, and he didn't want to deny her that triumph. Ivar was ready to die for her, by her hand. 

He smirked at her lazily, letting the anticipation of his own death rise in him like a tide. “Weapons only. Ax, sword, and knives are permitted. No shields, since you do not have one.” His smirk changed to a genuine smile, and he could see the shock in her eyes. It warmed him. “To the death.” His death, he didn't add. He had never been more ready for anything. 

“Begin.” Why did Ubbe sound so empty? Didn't he know Valhalla was waiting?

Eager to give his woman her satisfaction, Ivar drew his ax and swung at her knees. He would not cheapen the sweetness of her victory by holding back. He easily dodged the downward chop, it was obvious she was not accustomed to fighting this way. She lowered herself to her knees to fight him on his terms. Something he didn't understand flared up in him; no foe had ever respected him so much as to fight his way. She was a wonder, a gift from all the gods, and he thanked them for sending her to spill his blood. 

She gave him no time to admire the nobility of her spirit, for she immediately swung her sword at his side; but he had known she would strike there before it happened. His block was almost effortless, and he loved the vibration her blow sent up his arm. He stabbed swiftly toward her stomach, but she redirected his blade with the rasp of steel on steel. He shivered from the metallic rasp, or maybe from the way she moved. He could no longer tell, couldn't separate the lust for blood from the lust for her. 

It distracted him, allowing Kára to land a glancing blow on his arm. The cut was minor, barely more than a scratch, but still it stoked the fire in him to a bonfire blaze. His sword snaked forward instinctively; he simply needed to strike at her. He was surprised when it connected, felt the force of the blow shudder up his arm. The flat of his blade had hit her ribs; she was gasping but still she refused to give up. He was shocked he had hurt her at all, this goddess, his wild stormy Valkyrie. He had half-believed her to be untouchable, otherwordly.

He lunged for her, wanting to provoke her into killing him. He hated this delay of her happiness. She easily blocked his ax, but his fist slammed into her cheek, then along her face to her nose. He felt rather than heard the crunch of cartilage, and the sight of the blood pouring down her face in a crimson waterfall over her lips thrilled him. He had never seen anything so beautiful. He ached with longing, and she deemed fit to satisfy it. A small knife flashed in her hand, plunging toward his neck. 

Instinct took over and he dodged it; she ripped the blade through his shoulder. The blood spilling from him released the ache that had seemed to settle itself in a permanent blaze deep in his gut,and the relief of it made him gasp in unexpected pleasure. When she brought her finger, covered in his blood, to her lips red with her own blood, he felt himself burst at the seams. Kára moaned and he came undone. She had ripped him apart like a sword through a sail. 

“Marry me,” he rasped as the ax fell from his hand. The words shocked even him, but he felt the rightness of them in his bones, in the blood of his body that she had spilled and tasted. “Marry me, Kára, and we will rule together.” Yes. She was his death—the end of his old life, and the beginning of his new. His heart cried for her, at the beauty of her covered in blood and struggling for breath. She had been his weakness from the first sight of her, but by making her his wife she would become his strength. He always turned his weaknesses to strengths. That was how he had survived this long. 

She moved her head slowly toward him, and he was too enchanted to move. When her soft, warm tongue grazed the edge of his wound and tasted his blood again, he moaned and shivered in joy. He knew what her answer was before she spoke it, because her sweet, willing tongue spoke volumes more than her voice ever could.

He felt her tenderness and her sadness, her certainty in her choice. “Yes. I will marry you, Ivar.” Kára had tasted him, and now he needed more than anything to taste his woman. He kissed her, passionate and hard. He tasted her blood on her lips and his own on her tongue, and knew this was the woman the gods had crafted him for.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Ivar and Kára's battle for the throne of King Egil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't initially planning on writing this chapter. It's more of a filler than anything else, I suppose, but I realized there were some injuries inflicted in the fight that needed to be taken care of, and that's what happens here.

Kára sent Magnhild and Aki to their homes after the fight, taking two of the silver arm-rings she wore and giving one to each of them for their loyalty and courage. She'd felt her soon-to-be-husband's eyes on her during this exchange, and when she turned to face him, the look of approval on his face had surprised and warmed her. He laughed at the girlish blush creeping into her cheeks, but she only tossed her hair over her shoulder. Her braids had come undone during the fight, and her long auburn hair hung down to the small of her back. 

Ivar was transfixed by her, even in this state. Hair unbound and tangled, he still couldn't stop himself from running his fingers through it. He tugged gently when he met a knot, clever finger undoing it swiftly, and she leaned her head into his soothing touch. His sweetness shocked her. This brutal man wasn't one she expected to have tenderness in him. 

And then he reached his hands to stroke her face, lightly skimming the deep purple bruise blooming on her cheek from his fist. Shadowy bruises were also opening up around her nose and beneath her eyes, and although the nose was broken, it had stopped bleeding now. She had closed her eyes at his touch, and he moved his hands slowly to not alert her to his intentions. He aligned his thumbs with her nose, then closed them around the bridge of it and pulled the nose down and straight. Her eyes flew open, spitting fire at him, but she allowed him to finish setting it. 

As soon as he was done, she jumped to her feet and he could see her reining in the impulse to send her boot through his teeth. “A worse man than you has surely never walked Midgaard,” she hissed.

He shrugged, keeping his voice mild and his smirking to a minimum. He could not resist teasing her. “I am a great king. I cannot have a wife with a crooked nose.” She looked at him, sheer disbelief clear on her face, sputtering wordlessly at him. He laughed, rich and full and warm, easily catching the boot she sent sailing toward his jaw. Ivar set her foot back on the ground and shifted to lock eyes with her. “We should go collect your warriors, wherever you have hidden them outside the city. I'm sure they will be glad to know you live.”

He saw the nervousness in her eyes, that she would have to explain her upcoming marriage to the man who murdered her father and stole her throne. Kára squared her shoulders, and he could see the resolve turning to steel within him. Ivar found himself longing to forge that steel to his own will and desires, and he ached for his wedding night. Maybe it would even be tonight. 

She stood, primly dusting off her filthy trousers, and he laughed at the useless motion. She glared at him down her swollen nose, proud as ever. “We will need horses.”

“I assumed as much,” he replied blandly. “We will go to the stables. Ubbe, run ahead of us and make sure my chariot and a horse for the queen-to-be are ready. We will go alone.” Ubbe appraised them for a moment before deciding the danger of them killing each other was passed, and then he jogged toward the stables. “That is the slowest run I have ever seen!” Ivar called after him. Ubbe's laugh floated back to them on the breeze, but he didn't step up his pace. 

Kára was a small woman but she seemed to constantly be rushing from place to place, her enthusiasm and energy not allowing her to walk slowly. She had to remind herself to alter her walk to accommodate Ivar, but he moved faster than she expected. With a pang, she realized she should have known this—his speed had shocked her several times this morning. She glanced up at the sun, finding it just short of its zenith. Their fight had seemed to last only a few heartbeats, but evidently had been much longer.  
They made their way to the stables in a tense silence, neither quite sure what to say. The adrenaline and bloodlust had long since worn off. Now both were tired from the morning's exertions, nursing stiff muscles and other injuries. There was still the matter of Kára's ribs, too, Ivar remembered suddenly. He watched as she climbed into the saddle, her face a twisted grimace of pain as she clutched her side. “Ubbe,” Ivar called. Ubbe appeared, leading the white horse with Ivar's chariot. “Find a healer to bind Kára's ribs before we go.”

Ubbe looked up at her, sitting crooked and slumped in the saddle, face drained of all color, and swore beneath his breath before running off. This time, he actually did run. “Kára,” Ivar called softly, and her pain-hazed eyes found his. “Can you get off the horse?” She shook her head, silent, and he saw the tears welling in her eyes even as she blinked them back. Could she die from broken ribs? It wasn't an injury he had ever encountered, not really, and her breathing was rapid and shallow. Sudden fear stabbed him. Would he be the death of her, the only woman he'd ever known to be his true equal?

Just then Ubbe returned with a veritable army of healers and serving women, carrying bundles of rags and sticks and herbs, and the knot in his stomach lessened ever so slightly. Ubbe lifted her down from the horse and Ivar held out his arms for her, fury and embarrassment burning through him that he could never lift her small, lithe body like that.

Her eyes closed as he cradled her, a single tear leaking from the corner of one, as she settled deeper into the comfort of his arms. He quickly brushed the tear away with his thumb, simply knowing she would hate the show of weakness. The small, tremulous smile on her lips told him he'd done right. The women clucked and worried at her like hens, pulling her shirt back, pushing and prodding at her sides. She held herself still against their hands, but he could feel the quaking of her muscles and see the tight clench of her jaw. 

“Open your mouth,” a wrinkled crone ordered, prodding at her lips with a leaf. It took Kára a moment to comply, and then the old woman shoved the leaf in and ordered her to chew. “For the pain,” she explained to Ivar with a shrug. A few minutes later, the women were satisfied the ribs were in place, and busied themselves binding her torso with long strips of rags to keep them still and make them less painful. The plant was working by this time, too, and Kára's eyes were open. They took in Ivar's face, and the gratitude in them made him press a light kiss to her hair.

He could feel the dampness of her sweat on her scalp, smell the sharp twinge of pain in it, and sighed in relief that the binding was over now. “She should rest. The bones were only cracked, not moved out of place, but they will still be painful for a while,” the same old crone instructed Ivar. 

“We need to go to my soldiers,” she told him, voice steady. “If we keep the horses to a walk, I will be alright.” She tried to shrug his arms off, and he momentarily tightened his protective grip around her before releasing her. She stood slowly, stiff and painful, forcing herself to breathe steady. “Ubbe, can you help me onto my horse?” Ubbe lifted her carefully, forehead creased in concentration. She settled easily into the saddle, sitting straight and slowly rolling her neck. She nodded to Ivar, and he climbed into his chariot.

“Lead the way,” he told her, a mocking smile on his lips as he waved his arm at the open barn door with a flourish. She rolled her eyes at him, but turned her horse toward the light. For a moment, she was surrounded in an aura of fiery gold, burnishing her long hair to copper. She looked every bit a Valkyrie, every bit his queen, as he followed her outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter that just sort of happened. I hope it fits with the story and shows a bit of the the relationship between Ivar and Kára is evolving! I think it shows a more tender side to Ivar, and a vulnerability in Kára that we haven't seen yet, and that's why I decided to include it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kára and Ivar go to meet her warriors.

They kept the horses to a walk, and thankfully the horse Ubbe had saddled for her was a quiet creature. Her own mare was with her men still; Kára, Magnhild, and Aki had walked to the city the night before, praying to the goddess Nótt to shield their steps with shadows. Kára thought Thor's grandmother had obviously smiled on them; whether her warriors would consider her mission successful remained to be seen. 

“How large is the force you brought to my city?” Ivar asked lightly. Kára raked him up and down with her eyes, trying to decide if he was teasing her with his words. He must be. 

“Enough to crew five large warships,” she answered reluctantly. A part of her still was uncertain of her husband-to-be, but he would see her warriors soon anyway. 

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Quite the force. Were you expecting much trouble?”

“I expect you had spies on my kingdom before raiding it,” Kára replied icily.

He laughed, and even as it annoyed her, she enjoyed the sound of it. “Remind me to punish them. Very little of their information was accurate. I was told most of the force your father raised this season was on a raid led by a man named Brynjar.”

“My uncle. You will meet him. But yes, we went expecting trouble. There was a rebellion brewing.”

“How did you deal with it?” Ivar asked. His eyes were hungry.

“I beheaded the man who encouraged it and slaughtered his followers. The women and children I spared.” She paused. “Brynjar has the head, if you wish to see it. I was going to give it to my father.”

“We shall hang it above our city walls, and all will know a traitor was killed by the fair hand of Queen Kára,” Ivar promised her, his voice low and dangerous, sending shivers down her spine as he looked over at her. “Even with those bruises on your face, Kára, I have never seen a woman so beautiful. I will leave my marks on your beautiful body, and everyone will know you for the wife of King Ivar the Boneless.”

The breath left her throat in a low moan, and he longed to taste the sweet expanse of creamy flesh beneath her chin. “When do you intend to see us married, Ivar?” The question was breathless, her stomach tight and hot. She knew she should hate this man, and didn't understand why she could not. Freyja save her, she was to share this man's life—his bed and his throne and his companionship. The thought thrilled and terrified her. She could already see it in her mind's eye: dispensing judgment, leading raids and gifting silver to their warriors, the screams of their enemies as their shield wall broke, his body warming her bed each night, small voices calling her mother.

“As soon as our families can be summoned here,” he answered without hesitation. “I have two living brothers besides Ubbe, and I wish them to be here. But if they cannot come fast enough, we will marry without them here.”

“I have only my uncle Brynjar, and he is here,” Kára told him. She drew her horse to a stop, steeling herself to face her warriors, hoping they would accept her decision. “They are just on the other side of this hill.” Ivar could tell Kára was nervous, but he was excited to see the forces that followed her so willingly. If the rest of them were anything like the two she had brought with her to confront him, even this relatively small force was formidable. She urged her horse forward, and Ivar followed her lead. He kept his chariot beside her, so they crested the hill and appeared to her forces below as equals.

A man broke from the hastily-assembled camp—just piles of furs around the remains of small, sheltered fires that had been extinguished with the dawn—and ran toward them, calling Kára's name. She kept her horse to a walk, but a grin broke out on her face as she reached the man. “Why do you not greet your uncle?”the man cried out, laughing in relief at seeing her.

“Uncle. I am injured,” Kára admitted. 

“So I see,” he intoned, taking in her bruised face and broken nose.

“My ribs, too,” she explained. “Help me from the horse.”

“No, niece, stay up there, then. Who accompanies you? Where are Magnhild and Aki? How do they fare? Is the throne yours? Every moment was a year, Kára, waiting for news,” Brynjar said, his voice edged with exhaustion. Ivar inspected this man, his wife's only family. He could see the fatigue on his face, read the affection for Kára in his eyes, and he relaxed.

Kára drew a deep breath, and began to explain. Ivar chose to remain silent for now. “Magnhild and Aki are safe and unharmed, I have sent them each home with one of my silver arm-rings, and promised to deliver their share of the plunder to them later. The throne is mine, uncle, because I fought Ivar the Boneless in single combat for it.” He opened his mouth to speak, face overjoyed, but she held up a hand to override him. “It is he who accompanies me. We fought to a draw, and I have agreed to become his wife and rule alongside him.”

The shock on Brynjar's face was plain as he dropped his hand from Kára's shin. He was shaking his head slowly. “Kára. There is no honor in this. You have submitted to the man who killed your father and stole your throne. That throne is your by right, and I would rather you be dead than married to a crippled savage.” Dark eyes blazing, he spat in Ivar's direction. “This is a man who will never be worthy of his legendary father. He will never be worthy of your father's throne, and he will never be worthy of the daughter of my sister.”

This was the reaction she had feared, but hoped against. “Uncle. You know nothing of the situation. Come into the city and speak to Magnhild and Aki, they will tell you the truth of it.”

Ivar drove his chariot forward a few steps, his blue eyes menacing as they locked with Brynjar. “You will not speak to your queen in that manner.” His voice was quiet, almost pleasant, but the treat was clear in his eyes.

“I will not take orders from a usurper,” Brynjar hissed.

“Then you will die,” Ivar said bluntly, drawing a knife from his belt.

“No!” Kára insisted, positioning herself between them. She turned to face her warriors, gathered around and watching the spectacle. “You are my people, all of you. Blood of my blood. I invite all of you to celebrate my marriage to King Ivar, son of Ragnar Lothbrok. I invite you to serve in our army, to raid with us and grow wealthy. We will give you glory and silver, in return only for your loyalty. Those who remain loyal to me, Kára Egilsdottir, your princess by birth and queen by both right and marriage, you will always have a place in my hall, meat and mead at my table.” She paused, and her voice grew thunderous when she continued. “The rest of you, either begone from the kingdom of Ivar and Kára, or you will meet the same fate as the traitor I killed before your eyes. Either I will see each of you at my wedding in three days time, or I will see you die by my ax.” 

She wheeled her horse away, riding swiftly up the hill. With a savage, bloodthirsty cry, Ivar wheeled his chariot around and followed her, waving his ax and glaring ferociously at the army that should be loyal to his wife. If they would not follow her, would not follow him, he would help Kára kill them all. He reached the other side of the hill, and she waited for him there, slumped over in her saddle, holding her side. They rode slowly back to the city in silence. Three days time. Each day would be an age until he wed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a quick note on the size of ship's crews. According to the link below, a large warship would hold a crew of about 80 people. Hence, Kára's force of enough to crew 5 large warships is about 400 warriors.
> 
> http://www.legendsandchronicles.com/ancient-civilizations/the-vikings/viking-longships/
> 
> I know we kind of see Ivar let Kára take the lead here, which is unusual for him, but he just wants to really see the way she handles herself in front of possible disloyalty and her men. I like to think he's impressed with what he finds :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar and Kára have a talk about the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! So glad to introduce the amazing and lovely shesafreesoul as the beta on this story, since it was initially her idea!

When Kára entered the great hall, Ivar beckoned to her from his seat at the high table. She steeled herself against the nerves fluttering in her belly and went to him with all the courage she could muster. She had awoken this morning expecting her death at his hands, and instead he offered her a life greater than she dared hope for. Ivar smiled at her, a surprisingly tender expression on his hard face, and scooted to the side so she could share his bench. “I believe the custom in this land is that a man and his wife-to-be may share a plate and drinking horn at meals?” He asked sweetly.

He had done his research on her home, after all. She sat beside him, back straight as a sword, and gave a polite nod to Ubbe. He nodded back, and Kára looked around. There were only a few people in the hall right now, some servants and warriors making a quick meal before they retired for the night or took up their watches. “That is true,” she admitted, a strange excitement thrilling through her at the thought.

“Then we will share. We should show that we are unified, if we are to bring our kingdoms together smoothly,” Ivar pointed out. She couldn't argue with that sound logic, and besides Ivar was already cutting a bite of meat for her from his plate. She opened her mouth as he presented it to her on the tip of his small eating-knife. She was a little surprised to find he had selected a tender cut for her, and his self-satisfied grin at surprising her sent a wave of warmth up her cheeks. “You are being quiet tonight. From what I have seen so far, this is unlike you.” 

He fed her another piece of meat before running the point of his knife down the slope of her nose. She shivered, closing her eyes, and he burned at the expression on her face—part shock, part desire, and more than a little hope. The last nearly undid him, coming from one as strong as her. Part of him still thought her immortal, immune to such weaknesses as hope.

She chewed slowly to gather her thoughts, took a sip when he offered her his drinking horn. It was plain ale tonight, though freshly brewed, and she caught his wrist, bringing the horn to her lips again. “I am only thinking of how to address the issues we may face during our marriage.” She squeezed lightly before releasing him.

“Oh?” Ivar's blue eyes sparkled with mischief, the curve of his lips suggestive as he smiled at her. His forearm burned where she had touched it, he could feel her like a brand hot from the forge.“I can already think of a few good ways to fix any disagreements.” Ubbe choked on his bread and Ivar pounded his back quickly, giving him an exasperated look. Even Kára had to smile, nervous as she was to have this conversation, weak as Ivar made her feel. She had to be strong, to help her people and be a wife worthy of a man of Ivar's status. When she was younger, she'd believed she would marry some petty king, a mere peace cow to ensure the safety of her aging father's kingdom. 

But Ivar was a conqueror, a warrior through and through. Her husband-to-be both thrilled and terrified her, but she would prove to him she was worthy of being the queen of a great kingdom. He was known and feared not only in the northern lands, but in the lands to the south as well. She hoped he would take her there one day, she had always wanted to raid those rich lands. Her father would never allow it, much as she asked. The thought of him sent a stab through her gut, and she pulled herself from her thoughts and fixed Ivar with a level, cool gaze. “How are we to go about unifying our kingdoms? How will we rule together? Will we continue to raid and conquer other lands? What of my bride-price? It should go to me, in the absence of my father.” She paused, wanting to look away but refusing. “And why are you being so kind to me? I did not expect this of you.”

Ivar rested back against his chair, only leaning forward to cut her a slice of bread from the loaf on the table when he saw her looking at it. “The most important question first, then. You must know why I am being kind to you, Kára, don't be dense.” He smiled at her glare, reaching his thumb to smooth the lines between her brows. His touch was warm and gentle, and she leaned into it. His fingers traveled from her forehead to her hair, hanging in auburn waves to her waist. It was so soft and thick against his calloused fingers that he sighed. He kept stroking the deep red locks as he spoke, trying to convey through his touch the sincerity in his words. “The gods have crafted us for each other; surely you must feel it? I am treating you as an equal because you are the only person on all Midgaard that I have ever believed to be my equal.” His smile became ironic, teasing, as he took his hand from her hair to offer her another bite of meat. “Although all those questions were almost enough to make me doubt my instinct.”

Her voice was acidic, but Ivar found her even lovelier when she was angry. “Of course the gods saw fit to craft an arrogant prick for my husband.” Ivar's eyes blazed as Kára turned the full force of her smile on him, reaching her hand to him with a confidence she did not truly feel. He closed his eyes as she ran her fingers along his high cheekbone, tracing a faint scar there. 

He turned his head suddenly to plant a soft kiss on her palm, and she blushed like the virgin she was as she withdrew from him. “But of course you are to be my husband. I thought you would bring me death, but you have given me life instead. You are not Valhalla, but certainly you will be my home.” She turned businesslike again, cursing herself for showing him the power he held over her. “But what of my other questions?”

Ivar offered her another bite of meat, and as she chewed he answered, “We will rule jointly. There are tales of kings and queens doing so. As I said, you are my equal and I will always treat you as such.” Ivar was unaccustomed to showing this much weakness, it made him want to squirm like a child in trouble. He must convince her, though. She had to know she'd held his heart from the moment he saw her, and he wanted nothing more than her heart in return. Even more than glory, more than the blood of his enemies and more than Valhalla, he craved the love of this wild, stormy woman. There could be no life without her, and no death either. Without her, he would spend his days an empty shell, a forlorn ghost trapped somewhere between this world and the next.

“As we will be joined before the gods, so will our kingdoms be joined. There shall not be one without the other, just as from this day forward, there is no Ivar without Kára.” His words stirred something strange in her, a sudden lightening behind her breastbone. She took the drinking horn to hide the shaking of her hands. This was not a tender man; he was ruthless and clever. His blue eyes were wide and sincere, though, as he regarded her. She found herself wanting to trust him, wanting to drown in those eyes like the sea, even as part of her screamed to swim for the shore. She was trapped in the rip tide of his voice. 

“I wish to keep raiding and conquering, and so I shall. You will of course accompany me, if that is your wish, or you will stay behind and rule for both of us. You are a free woman and a queen, you are able to make your own choices. You have shown a great deal of wisdom and courage. I admire that in any man, and even more so in my wife. The people here love you and speak well of you. You will act as you see fit. And as for your bride-price, I have something in mind, and yes, it will of course go to you.”

He paused, looking straight at her with a predatory smile. “Ships, Kára, I will give you ships and men to lead. And for your morning-gift, we will sail them. You will choose the place for our raid. Frankia, maybe, or Northumbria? The wild Irish islands? I will deny you nothing.” He saw the pleased smile creeping over her face, the excitement in her hazel eyes, and knew he had offered the perfect thing for her. Yes, she was his equal in every way, a woman who understood the deepest desires of his heart. 

She leaned forward to place a chaste kiss on his lips, tasting lightly of ale, and he longed only to devour her as he had this morning, but he held himself back despite the urgency of his desire. In just a few days time, he would show her how deep she was in his heart.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding of Ivar and Kára.

Kára had always dreaded her wedding day, in part because she knew it meant the end of her freedom, and in part because she had no female relatives to help her with the preparations. The second one was easily fixed. She was the princess—no, make that the queen—and there were plenty of eager women to help her. She had selected a childless bride married less than one year, a young mother of two, and a grandmother. She felt that advice from women at all stages in their marriages would be the most useful.

The first concern, though, no longer worried her, she mused as she walked to where the ceremony would be held. Ivar had promised he would treat her as his equal, and so far he seemed to be a man of his word. It was with a profound sadness that she had accepted her father's sword from Ivar the night before. Custom dictated she present him with a sword of her ancestors at their wedding, and of course Ivar had taken the sword after killing her father.

Its familiar weight in her hands steadied her, kept her feet from flying off the earth as she felt they must. She had hefted this sword often as a child, admiring the way the light hit the pattern in the cold steel, the sharp angles of the runes for strength and victory carved just beneath the hilt. She dreamed of one day wielding it herself, although as she aged she realized that would never be the case. It would be her marriage-sword. 

She reached the grove where the ceremony was to be held, the three women with her chattering aimlessly. She had ignored them for most of the preparations, too lost in her own thoughts. She wished again for her parents, but all she had was the silent sword in her hands. Kára had never felt so alone as when she headed to her own wedding, surrounded by strangers.

But when she looked around the grove, her heart lightened. There was Ivar sitting on a stump, positively resplendent in a soft dark gray tunic and black breeches, sword and ax belted snugly around his hips. When she met his gaze, she thought that he looked like a man walking gladly to his destiny. She wished she possessed his unshakable certainty, but she only felt small and alone. His deep blue eyes were soft and calm as he shot her a smile, gesturing with one hand. That was when she noticed, and a few tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. She blinked them back before they could smudge the kohl lining her lids.

Gathered around the clearing was her band of warriors, unarmed, dressed in their finery to honor the marriage of their queen and commander. If the force was a little smaller than the full strength she had left with, she didn't focus on it. Despite herself, she couldn't stop her eyes from searching for the one man she knew in her bones wouldn't be there. She shook herself, instead focusing on those who had come. Most importantly, Ivar. He held an impatient hand out to her, and she abandoned the women who had brought her here.

By him stood the priest who would marry them, and the animals that would be sacrificed to ensure the success of their marriage. Kára took her place facing Ivar, trying to smile through the tangle of nerves writhing like snakes in her belly. The priest raised his voice to begin. “Today, in the presence of the gods, we are here for the wedding of King Ivar the Boneless, son of Ragnar Lothbrok, to Queen Kára Egilsdottir. Who has come to give this woman to her husband?”

Through the pounding of her heart, Kára cleared her throat and spoke. “I have no blood family to give me away. But,” she swept her hand around the clearing, “these men and women gathered here are my brothers and sisters. I have led them through bloodshed and into victory, and each one of them I consider family enough to give me to my husband.” She raised her voice, taking in the warriors that followed her so faithfully, trusting her even when she was unsure she deserved it. This was to be the moment of truth, show her the depths of their devotion. “Do you all consent to give me in marriage to Ivar the Boneless, accepting him as the king married to your true-born queen?”

Her speech was met with a rousing cheer from her warriors, and the priest nodded, failing to contain his smile. “So be it, then. You are given to your husband, and now we will call the presence of the gods to this wedding. But first, Kára Egilsdottir, you have a living gift you would like to present to your husband?” At Kára's signal, Aki led forth the young colt she had chosen. He was only recently weaned from his mother, long-legged and fearful, but the arch of his neck was already proud and his little hooves danced over the grass. 

“Ivar. I hope you look with favor upon my living gift to you, that Freyr may watch over you always, granting you wisdom in all your dealings as king. I ask that you accept this colt and cherish him as a living representation of my devotion to you.” 

“I accept this gift,” Ivar said, voice a little more hoarse than normal. Aki led the colt to him, and Ivar ran a hand through his wispy mane. “Thank you. I will call him Vigri.” She smiled as Aki led the horse away, the nerves beginning to ease. Next was the sacrifice, but she hardly paid attention. It was only when the warm blood hit her face that she was back in the moment, smiling at Ivar as he smiled at her. He looked more handsome than any man had a right to with fresh blood on his face. 

The priest begins speaking again, turning toward Ivar. “Have you brought a sword for your wife, as a promise of your protection?”

“I have.” Ivar drew the sword from his hip, extending it to Kára as if it weighed nothing. “This is the sword of my father, Ragnar Lothbrok. I give it to you, Kára, and ask that you will keep it safe. This sword will be used in the protection of our family. I will wield it in defense of you, as someday a son of our blood will wield it in defense of his own wife. So I swear, in the presence of the gods.” 

Kára took the weapon, bringing it to her lips to place a reverent kiss on the cold steel. “I will keep this sword safe. My heart will sing with pride to see a son of our blood swing it to slaughter his enemies.” 

“And Kára, have you brought a sword of your ancestors for your husband to symbolize that you are no longer a woman of your father's house?”

“I have.” Kára took the sword she had carried with her, her anchor. She hoped Ivar's sword would be enough to keep her from floating away. “This is the sword my father Egil carried on the day he fell by your hand.” A hush settled over the crowd. “I offer it to you now. As you took my father's life, so now do you take mine in your hands. I trust you will keep it well.”

The assembly seemed to be holding its breath as Ivar broke the tense silence. “I will treasure it always and keep it safe, just as I will always keep you safe.” He took the sword, sliding it into the vacant scabbard at his hip. Kára still clutched the sword of Ragnar, and found to her relief that it was enough to keep her grounded. She could do this. Ivar would not be the death of her, only her life. He had just promised so. 

The priest took two rings from his pockets, placing one on the handle of each sword. “In the presence of the gods, may these rings symbolize the sanctity of the vows you have made here today, reminding each of you always of the other.” They presented the rings to each other, taking them from the swords and slipping them on their fingers. They settled into place as if they had been forged exactly for their fingers. “In the eyes of the gods and in the eyes of men, you are joined as husband and wife. May the gods bless you and make you fertile, and may they curse any man that tries to tear you asunder!”

Ivar took her hand, running one finger lightly over the intricate knotwork of the band marking Kára as his, and he pulled her to him for a long, slow kiss. What had always been his in his heart was now his in the eyes of the gods. Kissing her for the first time as his wife, it felt like coming home to a place he had never been, but always dreamed of. And the way she responded, he could guess that she felt the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read in one source that in addition to sacrifices, sometimes animals were presented as living gifts from one spouse to the other, to invoke the favor of the gods. These animals were cherished as long as they were alive, seen as living gifts of the favor of the gods and the love of their spouse. Vigri, the colt's name, means "able or ready to fight."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar and Kára's wedding night (finally)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in two days! We're on a roll over here! And as always, thank you to my lovely amazing beta, shesafreesoul over on Tumblr :)

Ivar set on the bed they would soon share, pouring two horns of the honeyed bridal mead from the jug on the small table. There was an assortment of food there as well, chunks of cheese, crusty bread, and smoked meat. Lovemaking was hungry work, he supposed, if done properly. He could see Kára out of the corner of his eye, working her fingers through the thick auburn waves of her hair, pulling the decorative pins and carved bone combs out and setting them on the table.

“Come to bed, Kára,” he intoned softly. She turned to look at him, dressed only in her white shift. She knew the shape of her body was plainly visible through the thin fabric, and a chill shivered through her at the hunger in his bright, brilliant eyes. He looked godly sitting on the massive bed, surrounded by a sea of furs. The firelight gleamed off the muscular planes of his bare chest, playing over the intricate tattoos that marked his pale skin. His biceps rippled as he set the jug of bridal-mead on the table beside the bed. 

“I will come when I am ready,” she answered him blandly, hazel eyes challenging him. He felt a stirring down below 

He couldn't stop the smile that curved his lips upward. “Let me brush out your hair, wife.” He held a horn of mead out to her, and she took it and sat before him. He turned his clever fingers to her hair, gently untangling any knots he found. Her hair was lovely and soft, unbound like this, and smelled of sweet herbs and dried flowers. 

He nuzzled her neck through her hair, breathing in the scent of her, a thrill licking up his spine at the softness of her skin under his lips. She sucked in a hissing breath and he felt her tense momentarily beneath him before she relaxed. He swept her thick hair aside with one hand, brushing his lips over the back of her neck, breathing deeply, his exhalations tickling her. She giggled, a little breathless, and reminded herself that this man was her husband now. 

She took a long pull on the mead to give herself courage, and set the horn down before turning to face her new husband. She still the shaking of her hands by running them over his skin, tracing the dark tattoos on his chest and arms—stories of the wisdom of Odin and the strength of Thor. They were beautiful. He groaned at her touch, eyes widening, and began to tug her shift from her shoulders. She grabbed his hands, shaking her head, smirking. “When I say.”

“Kára,” he growled, leaning in to bite down hard on the side of her neck, “let me see all of you.”

She threw her head back at the bite, unable to compose herself at the sudden tightening in her core. After a moment, she shoved his chest roughly, forcing him back against the furs, and clambered atop him, shift tangling awkwardly in her legs. “When I say,” she repeated firmly, silencing any arguments with a sharp nip to his bottom lip. She lapped quickly at the drop of blood that welled there, and Ivar's hands tightened among the furs until his knuckles were white.

His hard blue eyes, glimmering with a crazed desire, met hers. “Fine. When you say, as long as it is soon.”

She drew a thin red line down his upper arm with her fingernail. “When I say. No matter if it is minutes or hours from now.” He slammed a frustrated fist against the wall, the dull pain of it steadying him. He nodded once, sharp, but the sultry smile she gave him was enough to soften him just a little. His agreement grudgingly given, Kára triumphantly returned to her ministrations. Finished exploring the tattoos with her fingers, her tongue took their place, leaving long, warm trails that quickly cooled as she moved on. Ivar shuddered beneath the softness of her, an unbearable hardness growing in his trousers as she moved lower. 

She paused when she reached his hips to untie the laces at his fly, and he lifted his hips to help her slide his trousers off. She ran slow, curious hands down the vee of his hips and to his legs, ignoring the erection that strained toward her touch. His stomach lurched, suddenly anxious. Was his prick not pleasing to her eyes? Would she begin to mock him for his twisted, useless legs?

But when she planted a kiss to each of his knees before rubbing her hands over his calves, he relaxed, warmth rising in him. She reached his feet, rubbing his arches and the joints where his toes met them, and he moaned at the gentleness of her fingers. She looked up at him, smiling softly before tenderly setting his feet back on the bed, and crawled toward him. 

The shape of her was lovely, a mere dark shadow through the soft white fabric of her shift, and it blurred her edges, making her look like a goddess taking shape from mist. Ivar ached to see her completely bare before him. She stopped, grabbing his hand and kissing the bruised knuckles where he had struck the wall. “Now.”

The word was all he needed. He lunged into a sitting position, hands eagerly tugging her shift over her head. She rose on her knees to help him, raising her arms, and it slide off her body like the sun burning away the fog. At last she was revealed to him, this small, strong woman who had haunted all his thoughts since their first meeting: the delicate curve of waist and hip, the muscular swell of her ass begging to be squeezed, the twin softness of her breasts. He could see the taut muscles packed onto her small frame from years of training and fighting, and even in his wildest dreams he could have never imagined a woman so perfect as the one before him.

Her face was still bruised from their fight, and bruises darkened her arms and shoulders from the raid she had recently been on. A few scabs and scars were present on her otherwise flawless skin, but he found they only made her more beautiful. She was truly his Valkyrie, this wild woman he was about to make love to.

He rested his hands on her hipbones and pulled her against him. And Kára closed her eyes, the touch of his hands on her hips awakening her even more than exploring his body had. And oh, how she had loved touching his smooth skin, tasting the salty tang of his sweat, savored the sight of his warrior's body before her, hers for the tasting and touching and taking. He laid back against the furs, and she molded her warm body to his, instinctively spreading her legs to grind her core against his proud shaft.

They let out twin sighs, breathless and a little nervous, and their searching eyes found each other. There was a question in the blue depths shining at her, and she answered it by planting her lips on his, her hand gently cupping his sculpted jawline. Ivar moved one hand down, teasing at her entrance. The juices there coated his fingers as he slid them slowly into her. He wanted to make sure she was ready to receive him. His fingers explored her slowly, pressing and teasing her, and she shuddered and gasped against him, grinding herself wantonly against the heel of his hand. Why delay, when she was ready for him now? They would have plenty of time later to explore each other more thoroughly.

He withdrew his fingers, and she whined against his lips at the sudden loss of pleasure. He shushed her with a kiss, lining his tip up with her wet opening, and sank slowly into her for the first time. Kára's hazel eyes were wide and surprised, her pink lips parted in the shape of an o. She could feel his thickness stretching her virginal tightness, filling her until she thought she might burst. She buried her face into his shoulder, biting down on the skin to release some of the pressure of him. He moaned and tangled his fingers in her hair, one hand still resting on her hip, fingers gently stroking her there. “Oh, Kára. You're doing so well. I'm going to start moving now. Move with me. Rock your hips, that's a good woman.” His words trailed off in another throaty moan as she slowly moved her hips in time with his, long, gentle thrusts that stretched her again and again. They kissed over and over, gasping into each others parted lips, tongues dancing and tasting.

After what seemed an eternity, her eyes opened wider and she gasped, fingers clawing desperately at his chest and shoulders, drawing thin red lines on his flesh. He captured her lips in a hard, hungry kiss, and was surprised at the force of her response. They thrust harder together, driving them both closer and closer to that sweet precipice. Finally she clenched around him, screaming his name like an exultation to the gods, and the force of his own release hard on the heels of hers left them both reeling, shaking like autumn leaves in a brisk wind. 

They tangled together in a gasping, trembling heap of sweet sweaty flesh and shared breathing, pulling each other close, eyes locking together and hands grasping desperately at whatever they could find. The devotion in Ivar's eyes shook Kára to the very center of her being, something warm and heavy and sweet blossoming in her belly. The force of it scared her, but the softness in his eyes reassured her, his hands stroking his clammy skin a promise that this was real; that he would help her nurture the growing tenderness in their young marriage.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar presents Kára with her morning gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Min elskede: my beloved  
> Min kjaerte: my dear. It actually has an aesch in it, the joined ae thing, but I couldn't find how to do it on my keyboard. 
> 
> And as always, thank you so much to my beta, the lovely and amazing shesafreesoul over on Tumblr, for all her help and support :)

Kára walked beside Ivar as he dragged himself over the ground, and she found herself admiring the graceful way he moved. She was unsure how a man could look magnificent crawling like a beast, and yet her husband managed. Maybe it was the easy confidence in his movements, like this was nothing to be ashamed of, or maybe it was the rippling strength in his arms and shoulders. Her eyes were drawn to the curve of his backside, and he looked back in time to catch her staring. A wolfish, teasing grin spread over his soft mouth, and she remembered the taste of his kiss. “See something you like, wild woman?”

She could feel the heat of a blush staining her cheeks crimson, but she met his eyes without shame. “Something I like very much.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial stage-whisper. “I found myself thinking of the feel of your skin under my hands, the way you moved against me in our bed last night.” She bit her lower lip before continuing, feeling her blush deepen. “I can still feel the memory of you inside me.”

“Kára,” his voice was half a moan and half a growl. “If you do not stop talking like that, I swear I will pull you to the grass and take you right here.”

“Did I not satisfy you well enough before breakfast?” Her voice was shy, and she refused to meet his eyes for a moment. 

He laughed, warm and tender. “I think I could love you all night, and yet still want nothing more than to keep loving you all day. Think of this morning as only a promise of things to come tonight.” A sudden heat jolted through her at those words, and she ached to have him follow through on his earlier threat. 

Ivar stopped suddenly, motioning her toward the door of the bladesmith's forge. She shot him a puzzled look, but opened the door and followed him inside. He pulled himself into a chair that had been set out, and she looked at him with open curiosity. He pointed toward the wall, the racks where the newly made weapons hung until their proud new owners came to collect them. “Do you see that battle-ax, with the golden inlays and the runes burned into the handle?” She nodded. “It is yours, part of your morning-gift. I saw that you carry a sword and a small throwing ax that you are very skilled with,” he smiled, remembering with surprising fondness the time she had barely missed his face. “But I noticed you do not have a battle-ax. I do not care if you never carry it into battle, but my Valkyrie deserves a weapon as beautiful and strong as she is.”

The ax was indeed beautiful, and she traced her pointer finger lightly over the glistening of the gold knotwork inlay. The knots depicted the shape of a howling wolf, the single eye a small green stone set into it. She took the weapon, hefting it in both hands, and sighed in delight. It felt good in her hands, heavier than her sword, but light enough for her to swing with a fair amount of ease. She had trained with a large battle-ax, but never carried one into battle. This was certainly a weapon that could split skulls, but speed was her greatest weapon, and this ax would slow her. 

“I will use this ax to split the skulls of the men who betrayed me,” she promised, meeting his glinting blue eyes as she kissed the sharp edge of the ax. 

Ivar nodded, his voice husky, “come here, my wild woman. Bring your ax. It must be blooded.” Kára was compelled to obey, and she knelt beside him, cradling the ax on her lap like a child. Ivar ran his palm along the edge of the ax, creating a shallow cut. He took Kára's hand and ran her palm along the blade, too; she hissed at the burning sensation the sharp edge cutting her skin. Ivar pressed their palms together, mixing their blood, then kissed her knuckles. “Blood my blood,” he whispered.  
“Blood of my blood,” Kára echoed, a chill running up her spine at the hungry look in her husband's eyes. He cupped her cheek, smearing his blood on her pale skin, and guided her lips to his in an eager kiss. After a few moments, Ivar drew back, head tilted to one side, looking at her.

“Now you have a choice, my Valkyrie. Would you prefer to go on our raid first, or hunt down the men who betrayed you?”

The choice was easy. “First we raid. I want to see Northumbria, tales of your great army there reached us even here. I want to see the place of your victory, to spill even more blood on that green land.” She paused, something akin to bloodlust smoldering in her hazel eyes. “And then when we return, we deal with the traitors. By then they will probably be better organized. It will be a much more satisfying fight.”

Ivar laughed. “If it's Saxon blood you wish for first, Saxon blood you will have. I told you already that I will deny you nothing. I have thought ahead already, preparing for both options so there will be no delay. Our forces are gathered, and the ships are in the harbor, ready to sail. We can leave with the tide tomorrow morning. We will be gone for probably two months. It is risky to leave a newly conquered kingdom so soon after establishing control, but our marriage should quell most of the unrest. I will leave Ubbe here in command of a small force of my men. Do you wish to leave some of yours behind, too?”

She snorted, looking at him as if that were the stupidest question she had ever heard. “Of course. Magnhild will command my men, she knows the people here. Shall we grant them joint power to settle any disputes that arise in our absence? They must reach a decision acceptable to both of them in order to pass a judgment. If they cannot, no decisions will be made until our return.”

Pride glistened in Ivar's striking blue eyes, the corners of them crinkling in a smile. “You were shaped by the gods to rule with me, min elskede.” He pressed another kiss to her sweet lips, sighing against them in contentment before he pulled away. Her hazel eyes begged him to kiss her again, and he was only too happy to oblige her. “We should spend the day preparing. I have ordered most of our supplies packed already, but there is always much to do the day before a raid.”

Kára nodded, hazel eyes glinting. “But nothing so important as this.” Her voice was a breathy whisper, and Ivar widened his eyes in a question. She laid back on the floor of the empty bladesmith shop, pulling Ivar forcefully onto her, “You will make love to me. You will spill your seed in me. You will show all men that I am yours, and you will let me conquer you as we will conquer our enemies.”

Her commanding tone had him quickly hardening, and he gasped as her hand plunged into his trousers to stroke him. His hands were already lowering her pants, and his wandering fingers found her already wet and warm and eager, writhing against his hand. She tore his trousers down from his hips, her hands like iron on his backside, pushing him into her core in one smooth stroke. They both moaned at the overwhelming pleasure of their joining, and Ivar bit sucked hard enough on her neck to bruise the tender skin. He then bit it to seal the mark, and she bucked her hips against him, her nails drawing light lines down his lower back and buttocks, even down to the tops of his thighs.

“Yes, Ivar, gods, the feel of your cock within me is the sweetest thing I've ever imagined.”

He pumped harder into her, growling in her ear, “tell me more. Praise me, min elskede. Tell me exactly how good of a lover I am to you.”

“When you move your hips that way,” he repeated his movement, gyrating his hips against her, almost questioningly, and she moaned, “yes, just that way, gods, Ivar, min kjaere.” She could barely continue through her gasping, but the his blue eyes, glinting with need, tore at her heartstrings. “When you move in me, I feel like I must be a goddess. Surely I will burst from the sweetness of your cock stretching me.” Her next words were sharp, almost a keen, “you hit some spot inside me, oh Ivar. Find it again.” Her hands dug into his scalp, gently pulling at his hair, and he sucked on her neck again, just below the junction below her ear. 

She threw her head back, screaming, as her hips arched against him, beyond her control. The waves of her pleasure caught him, pulled him into the ocean storm of her orgasm, and all he could do was gasp and cling to her to stay afloat. He lingered inside her after they had both finished, and Kára, feeling strangely vulnerable after feeling so powerful, burrowed her head shyly into the warm, solid strength of his chest. 

He kissed her hair, then cupped her chin and raised her face to gaze into her eyes. “Min elskede, you have no idea of the power you have over me.” Now it was Ivar's turn to feel shy, and to distract himself he ran his fingers through the soft red waves of her hair. “Everyone always thinks, because I am a king and have led armies for many years now, that I always like to be in control. But in submitting to your desires, I find no shame.” He struggled to put into words the strange feelings swirling within him, but he had never been gifted at this type of thing. “Having you so confident and bold, Kára,” he paused, again, still trying to find the words, “hearing you tell me how I make you feel, I loved it.” He smiled at the shining in her eyes. “My wild, strong woman. It is your strength that first drew me to you. That is my favorite part of you: you are indomitable.” 

This drew a warm giggle from her. “My favorite part of you, I think, is your honesty. I feared you because of your reputation, but you are a man whose actions matches his words.” She paused to kiss him, grinning. “That mouth of yours is my second favorite part of you.” He gently bit her lip before she drew back. The moment of weakness passed, Kára kissed his lips one last time before standing and tugging her clothing back into place. “Now we can go prepare for the raid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a different side of Ivar than we usually see, but bear with us! shesafreesoul and I have discussed it and decided to have him have some kinks that are a little unusual for him, but I don't want to give too much away because it's going to develop a little more slowly. Bear with us, and we hope you guys enjoy it as much as we do!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar and Kára are on a raid to Northumbria, although this mostly takes place afterward. As always, thank you to my amazing beta, shesafreesoul over on Tumblr!

It had been many years since Ivar first saw Northumbria, rolling onto the beach in a storm swell, more drowned than really alive. He'd expected to die then and there, but fate was a tricky thing, he mused, glancing over at his wife. They were well into some Northumbrian river. He was a clever man, after all, and still kept some spies in this southern land. Some of the men from the great army of his youth had settled here. They told him there was a new monastery up this river, full of gold and men too weak to really guard it.

Kára seemed eager when he told her of it. The gods bless that woman, she was a true Viking. He could see the disappointment in her hazel eyes when he told her it wouldn't be much of a fight, since this was a home to men who refused to draw weapons to defend their wealth. She was confused by the very idea, and Ivar had spent a considerable amount of time trying to teach her about the nailed man the Northumbrians worshiped.

But then, she knew the easy wealth would make their crews happy, and he knew that was why she had agreed to attack the monastery. That, and he had explained to her while whispering in her ear, tasting the sea-spray on her skin, feeling her press her willing flesh into his hungry teeth, that the Northumbrians would surely send a force to avenge the slain priests. 

Kára stood beside him now, watching the first rays of the sun peek shyly over the horizon. The monastery was right there, a mere stone's throw from the bank of the river. Excitement tingled through her, her blood crying out to spill blood. Movement caught her eye, and she hissed as she gripped Ivar's shoulder. “Is that a....monk?” She struggled to find the word, but he nodded. Ivar could barely suppress a moan at the predatory, eager look on her face. “I am going to run the oars.” She told him, then raised her voice before he could protest, “lock the oars!”

Ivar barely caught her shield as she tossed it carelessly at him, already focused on her task. In two quick strides, she reached the side of the ship to find the oars already locked into their horizontal position. She jumped up onto the first oar, screaming like a madwoman, and ran nimbly down the line of them, each step quick and precise. One wrong move, and she would plunge to the bottom of the river, weighed down by her armor, and die there, never to enter Valhalla. But she was unafraid. Brynjar had been an accomplished oar-runner, and he'd taught her well.

Ivar couldn't take his eyes off her, his wild woman, auburn hair streaming behind her. She seemed to fly, suspended above the surface of the river by the oars, and he found himself thinking that maybe a sight like this had inspired that ridiculous Christian story about the man who walked on the sea. Reaching the end of the line, Kára flung herself recklessly onto the ship, still screaming, as she scrabbled halfway up the stem crowned by the roaring dragon-head. Ivar threw his head back, his voice joining hers in the wild song of a wolf before the hunt. 

And then his wife was beside him, panting, pointing toward the shrinking back of the monk. She threw herself down beside him, kissing him hard as the nose of the ship gently bumped against the shore. Ivar bit her bottom lip, licking the small drop of blood he drew there, before pushing her roughly back. Ivar positioned himself on his shield, and Kára and her massive warrior Aki lifted him from the ship. His chariot followed, carried by four men, and then his horse emerged from the river, shaking himself like a dog. Quickly the horse was harnessed, and Kára leaped up onto her mare without a saddle, ignoring the cold river-water soaking her trousers.

Ivar watched as she brandished her sword, bareback on her prancing bay mare, looking for all the world like a Valkyrie about to call death forth out of the northern winds. He slapped the reins across his horse's rump, and together he and his wild little woman led their small force to destroy the monastery with fire and steel.

….  
It was a day Ivar would remember forever—the unbridled joy on Kára's face as her sword bit deep into flesh, the way the crimson of fresh blood contrasted so beautifully with her pale skin. The cries of frightened Christians, the whooping of the raiders when they found heaps of shining silver. The smell of the monastery burning, the sight of their scrolls catching alight as he touched them with his torch. The hollow clop of his horse's hooves in the empty, echoing hallway. 

And of course, the way Kára threw down her sword and shield at the sight of him, dragging him from his chariot with demanding hands, pulling him into the tall green grass beside the smoking shell of the monastery. The taste of blood and Kára lingered on his lips even now, hours later, as he cradled her in his arms in the belly of the longship. 

The memory of their lovemaking stirred him, the way she had screamed for him among the dead and dying, his name ripped from her lips in a ragged screech. His heart soared, knowing that had been the last sound men had heard today. Side by side they had destroyed, and side by side they would conquer. He had promised her blood, vengeance, and men. In return, he asked only for her love and was surprised at with which she gave it to him. 

He couldn't stop himself from kissing her as she slept, and she snuggled tighter against his chest with a content sigh. “Kára,” he whispered in her hair.” She gave a sleepy “mmm?” in answer, blinking slowly up at him. “I love you.” He had never told her this before, although a part of him had known it from the moment she burst into his hall, framed by sunlight and wind. He'd been scared of it then, cursing himself for the power she held over him, the weakness she brought him to. But he knew the truth of it now. He realized, when she came to him amid the slaughtered, painted with bright blood and tasting of life itself, that she was his strength. His wild, wanton Valkyrie, screaming like the northern winds themselves.

“I love you, too, Ivar,” she answered softly, looking up to meet his blue eyes with her hazel ones. “I always sort of have, you know.” This was not what he had expected, and the simple honesty of her words steals his breath for a moment. He closes his eyes and presses a gentle kiss to her temple, breathing in the sweaty scent of her hair, savoring the lingering salt-and-iron taste of blood on her skin. Once, Kára had thought he would only bring her death. And he had, in a way. He'd taken her life in his hands, and he held it there still. Instead of keeping it for himself, he offered it back to her. She would die a thousand times, only to have him give him her life back, holding it out to her in his bloody hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually really like long battle sequences, but I decided for the purpose of this work to keep this raid to a format typical of historical Vikings, that I like to refer to as "fuck shit up and leave." Plus there's some interesting stuff coming up soon, so even though this is mostly fluff, I promise we'll get to some more good stuff soon! 
> 
> Also, what Kára does is called running the oars. I was only able to find a few not so great references to it, but I really wanted to include her doing that!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kára can't sleep, and she takes out her frustration on Ivar.

It was so early the sun had not yet risen, although the edge of the moon rested on the dark, invisible line where the sky meets the sea. A few of the crew were awake, to keep the ship on course through the night, but most were asleep. For that, Kára was thankful. The rocking of the ship set her stomach to rolling, and the seasickness filled her with shame. The sea was in her veins. She ran along the oars, climbed the rigging of the sails to patch holes, and reveled in the feel of the salt wind on her face. The sea had never made her sick before, and she felt like a traitor to her own blood.

“Kára,” whispered a crew member, leaving their post to crawl over to her. The shadow melted into the familiar shape of Magnhild, and Kára relaxed. “You did not suffer from sickness on the voyage to Northumbria.”

She shook her head, sighing, “and the seas have been no rougher, although now we are coming close to the storm season. We sailed for home probably a month later than we should have, but,” she shrugged, her teeth glinting in the fading moonlight as she smiled, “it was fun, was it not?”

Magnhild giggled, “Fighting by your side has been one of my greatest entertainments since we were children. And the men in Northumbria are even weaker than the stories say. The whole crew gained much wealth by staying a little longer, and everyone is happy.” She paused, then blew her breath out through pursed lips. “Are you worried that the extra time might have allowed Brynjar to gather a larger force, though?”

Kára stuck her head over the side of the ship, wretching, but nothing came. She rested her forehead against the cool, comforting wood, eyes closed, and tried to will her stomach into calmness. “No,” she gasped, trying to focus on anything but how she felt. “And if he did, I welcome the challenge. There was no true fight in Northumbria, no glory to be gained there, only wealth. Defeating Brynjar's force will give us glory, but not much for wealth. We will have an even happier crew then, yes? One richer than when we set off, and also more renowned. Giving Brynjar the extra time to gather his strength was not part of our initial plan, but Ivar says we will benefit from it.”

She wretched again, feeling like her stomach was being ripped to shreds, and this time a small amount of bile came up, bitter in her mouth. She spat it angrily into the calm sea, then rinsed her sour mouth with the water Magnhild offered her. “Kára,” Magnhild hesitated, looking at her hands, “when my sister was with child, she was ill often. When was the last time you had your courses?” Magnhild tensed, seeming to hold her breath.

“No,” Kára sputtered, shaking her head. “That is impossible.” She tried to deny it even as the truth of it broke over her like a wave over the side of a ship. Anger strengthened her, overrode the nausea rolling through her. How dare Ivar do this to her? Did he not understand what he took from her when he gave her this child?

“Has no one ever told you....” Magnhild began, but trailed off as Kára crossed the ship to reach her husband in a few quick strides. 

She descended on him like a hurricane, raining punches on his chest, howling like the wind in the mountains, “You have stolen my vengeance from me!”

Ivar was awake in a flash, caught off guard and not even bothering to block her punches. He pushed himself quickly up, crashing into her and pinning her to the deck beneath him. His confused blue eyes met her furious hazel ones, and he felt suddenly weak. He could not give in to this fear.“Have you lost your mind, woman?” he yelled back at her. He would not show her his fear, but even as he tried to deny it, it threatened to drown him.

“You promised you would deny me nothing, but you stole my vengeance!” She writhed and twisted under him, but he was fully awake now. He ignored the annoyed grumbles of the men they had awoken in their scuffle. What had gotten into her? She was his wild woman, but generally her wildness made sense to him. This, though, was something different. The coil of fear twisted more insistently in his gut, refusing to be ignored any longer. Did she suddenly hate him? She had come to him willingly and often during their time plundering Northumbria; laughed with him at meals and listened to his stories at night as they gazed at the stars together. She spoke to him with genuine warmth and affection, touched him with tenderness after the small skirmishes, tracing his faded scars and new cuts. She kissed him sweetly and loved him with a wild passion. 

The thought of her turning her back on him was nearly enough to destroy him right here on the deck of their longship. Surely he would dissolve into foam without her, become one with the sea. He had to know what she was talking about, and so he pressed through the fear that tried to choke him.“What are you talking about? You will have your vengeance when we reach home. We will find your uncle and his men and slaughter them like the traitors they are. It will be a glorious fight and will expand the reputation of our ferocity.” Kára shook her head rapidly, failing to blink back the unbidden tears that welled in her hazel eyes. Ivar gently brushed them away with his thumb. “Min elskede,” he whispered, “what is wrong? Is that not what you wanted?”

“How can I stand in a shield wall when I am with child?” Her words sent him reeling, awakened a warmth behind his breastbone that shocked him. Ivar had hoped he would be able to give her children, but he had always been afraid of the possibility of his barrenness. Ubbe had drunkenly elbowed him on his wedding night, warning him that the seed of the sons of Ragnar took root quickly. Ivar had not believed him. The shock of it froze him for just a heartbeat before he realized he was crushing his wife and unborn child beneath him. “Shit. Did I hurt you? Did I hurt the baby?” He scrambled quickly off her, and she swung at his chest again.

“I am with child, I did not suddenly become fragile,” she retorted, voice dripping venom.

“Of course you're not,” Ivar agreed immediately, using the same tone he would on a panicked horse.

“Do not speak to me like I am a frightened animal!” Kára growled, every inch a mother bear. Ivar worked hard to suppress his smile. 

“I am sorry, min elskede, but you are being crazy.”

“And you are being an arseling,” she told him.

He inclined his head to her. “On that, we disagree.” He held his arms out to her, blue eyes pleading. “I want to hold you, my wild woman. I want to touch your belly, to feel where our child lives.” The fight melted out of her in an instant, and she sagged against him with a ragged sigh. He planted a kiss in her auburn waves, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of her, thanking all the gods for how they favored him. First this woman, his only true equal, thrown into his path unexpectedly. And now, a child in her belly.

He pressed his palms against her flat stomach, marveling at the miracle beneath his calloused hands. He opened his eyes to meet her gaze, and found her full of uncertainty. “You will still have your vengeance, min Kára, I swear to you.” His hands wrapped around her shoulders, cradling her. “I cannot wait to see your belly swell. Do not be afraid. As long as we are one, there is no reason to fear. We are still one, wife, yes?” 

“Yes,” her voice was muffled against his shirt as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Until the Valkyries close my eyes, we are one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some good old fashioned smut. As always, thank you to my wonderful beta, shesafreesoul over on Tumblr for checking this out for me!

Ivar found it hard to concentrate on anything Ubbe was saying when Kára licked her lips like a cat about to pounce as she dragged those stormy hazel eyes over his body. The heat of her gaze burned him, brought a flush creeping up the back of his neck and awakened a flame in his groin. Although she had always been a wanton little Valkyrie, with her belly grew her appetite for him. His gaze rested on her belly now, following the slow circling of her hand across the swelling that was just starting to become noticeable all the time. His child nestled there, protected and warm. He wondered briefly if the baby could feel the caresses of its mother. The thought warmed him even as he realized its improbability. 

Her hand slid lower and Ivar hissed as he imagined what her hand did beneath the table. One finger probably teased her own nub through her dress. She would be so slick and warm there would be little resistance as he sheathed himself in her. “Later, Ubbe,” he suddenly cut in, voice a guttural growl.

Ubbe took one look at the storm brewing behind Ivar’s blue eyes and rose hastily. “I’ll go talk to the scouts who found Brynjar’s forces.” His green cloak swished behind him as he strode quickly toward the door, and before he had even left Kára was crawling over the table toward Ivar. She never even got to him, because Ivar pulled himself up on the table and crashed his lips into hers. His fingers tangled in her braids, tugging them loose so he could feel the silkiness of the strands against his skin. Kára pulled back suddenly, tsking at him in disapproval. “Did I say you could undo my hair, Ivar?” He growled, pulling roughly on a half-undone braid before releasing her hair. 

Before he even realized what was happening, her warm, calloused hands on his chest pushed him back to lay on the table. She leaned down to nibble on his exposed neck, but drew back with a hiss when Ivar’s wandering hands found her tender breasts. “I did not say you could touch me.” Kára scolded, slapping his hand impatiently away.

Breathing heavy, Ivar looked up at her, wanting to see the expectations in her eyes, but she was focusing her attention on removing his trousers. Sometimes she took him by surprise this way, demanding he submit to her. He found it wildly tantalizing, strangely intoxicating to be swept along in the raging tides of her passion. She had untied his trousers by now and he lifted his hips to help her slide them off. Her warm, calloused hand grasped his cock, and she sighed in approval at his hardness.

Then she was hitching her skirts above her hips and lining herself up with his prick. She sank onto him with a breathy moan, her hot slickness holding him tight. “Watching you strategize with Ubbe,” she began, rocking her hips against him, “made me need you. Now. I am in love with your cunning mind, and I hope our child is as clever as you.” She grasped his hands and placed them on her hips; his fingers pulled against the blue wool of her dress. “Rock into me.” Her commanding tone left no space for argument. Ivar couldn’t have denied her even if he wanted to.

She threw back her head, shouting his name as he drove home into her. His hands pulled her hips hard against him. She ground down onto him with all the force she could muster. Ivar found the sight of her riding him more magnificent than anything he had ever witnessed. Her messy auburn hair prettier than autumn leaves, the sight of her blossoming belly and heavy breasts bouncing with each thrust only drove him to fuck her harder. Ivar had been captivated by her from the very first, thought her a wild Valkyrie come to carry him home. But here she was, a goddess carrying his child, lovelier than any woman on Midgard had a right to be. With one last sloppy thrust he spilled his seed deep into her, reveled in her screams and her shuddering body as she convulsed around his cock. 

He watched her as she rode him, felt the need still coursing through her. “Ivar,” she mewled, “your tongue. I’m still aching for you, and your tongue makes me feel like a goddess.” He helped her clamber off him and lay back on the table. He didn’t make her wait, his wild little woman, before he plunged his tongue eagerly into her soaked core. Her thighs clamped lightly around his head, anchoring him. She demanded all from him, and all he had was hers to take.

He switched his attention to her clit, pulling it into his mouth and flicking the sensitive bud with his tongue. Her back arched as he slid two fingers into her. “Ivar,” his name left her mouth in a moan. “The way you suck me like that drives me crazy. And your fingers,” she trailed off in another moan. His pace was grueling now, fueled by the intensity of her need for him. 

He loved making her feel this, loved her telling him just exactly what he did to her. She came quick and hard, grinding herself into the heel of his hand. His tongue wandered to her slit, licking the moisture from the thick nest of curls that grew there. He ran his tongue in one last long, slow sweep across her entrance before hoisting himself up to rest on one hand. He wiped his other hand across his mouth and grinned proudly down at his fierce little Valkyrie, still shuddering on the table.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ivar and Kára get their vengeance on Brynjar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much to my amazing beta, shesafreesoul, for her wonderful input and encouragement. And thank you all for bearing with me, sorry this chapter took so long!
> 
> Trigger warnings: Blood, violence, death, the usual. Ivar being semi-psychotic. Violence against a pregnant woman.

It felt strange to be unarmored on the field of battle. She felt vulnerable, naked despite the fact that she wore Ivar's tunic over her breeches, a belt cinched between her heavy breasts and her ungainly middle. Only two or three moons and the babe would be in her arms. Maybe then she would feel less slow, less sluggish, more like a warrior. Despite that, her old battle-lust coursed through her, quickening her pulse and making the blood rush in her ears like an arctic wind.

It was time to do the part Ivar promised he would not steal from her. The fighting was not for her, not when she had her child to protect. No vengeance was worth the life within her, the growing flame of the love she shared with her husband. She rested one hand on the mound of her stomach, feeling a strong jab to her side. Her little one must hear the singing in her veins, be dancing to the song older than time itself—violence.

She had watched the battle from the edge of the carnage, feeling like some ancient weaver of fates as she prayed to the gods. They answered her plea. Ivar had led their army to victory—using the strategy they developed together. She knew her uncle and she knew this land like her own body; there was no hill or glade that was a mystery to her. This land was hers, its fields watered with the blood of her forefathers and tamed by the hands of her foremothers. 

Being with child, it made her think strangely sometimes, made her feel the connection to the rest of her people, to their land, all the more deeply. Kára knew she would never leave her people defenseless, would die a thousand deaths to keep them safe and welcome her namesake Valkyrie as an old friend. Proud even in death, she would laugh with her sister warriors and wait for her brilliant, bloodthirsty husband to join her in the hall of the victorious dead.

But not today. Today, she would kill for them, make their land fruitful with the blood of the men who had forsaken her. She strode forward with all the confidence she could muster. Watching the battle instead of fighting in it had made her feel useless. But this, this was her time to contribute. Ivar was waiting for her, a row of a dozen defeated men on their knees behind his chariot. Victory suited Ivar—the manic gleam in his bright blue eyes, the beautiful crimson of blood contrasting with the perfect paleness of his skin and the inky blackness of his short beard. 

He bared his even white teeth in a feral grin at her approach, and she could see a drop of blood fall from his front teeth. Kára nearly faltered, the sight making her knees weak, but she would not show weakness in front of these traitors. In front of Brynjar. 

She reached her husband and pulled his head roughly to hers, a kiss that was all hunger and passion and the taste of blood—a kiss that was the essence of her and Ivar. He handed her the beautiful ax he'd given her as a morning-gift, and she hefted it in her hands. It felt good there, like it had been crafted just for her, just for this task. 

Ivar thought his wife had never looked more like a Valkyrie than she did now, with her auburn hair streaming unbound behind her, belly great with his child and the promise of death in her glittering hazel eyes. The golden head of the ax flashed in the light of the early afternoon sun, biting deep into the neck of the first man. His name had been Vidar, and he died on his knees, no weapon in his hand. And so it happened for the rest of the traitors. She said their names, looked into their eyes as she took their lives. 

“Harald.” The splatter of warm blood on her cheeks. “Thorbjorn.” Her arms shuddering as the ax took his life. “Audun.” The way the light faded from blue eyes like the moon blocking the sun. And on down the line she went, ensuring her face was the last to be seen by any of the men who had betrayed her. At last, there was only one left. Only the man who shared the blood that ran in her veins. “Brynjar.” Her voice was cold and hollow, empty as the wind. 

“Kára.” He lifted his head to look at her, his face so familiar, so ingrained in her earliest childhood memories, that it made her heart ache. Suddenly she felt so tired she wanted to curl up and sleep on this field among the slain. How fitting would that be? They should have all been her men, and the thought of it made tears well in her eyes. “I will gladly die by your hand, blood of my blood. Only let me enter Valhalla. Let me hold a sword while I die.”

She hesitated only a moment, ignored Ivar's enraged scream at her back before drawing the sword at her hip and holding it out to her uncle. It was the one Ivar had given her on their wedding day, the sword her father carried into battle. It had been given to him by her mother at their wedding. It was a sword of her people and of Brynjar's. It seemed fitting for him to die with that sword in his hand. He grasped the hilt reverently, kissed the shining blade as Kára hefted the ax and prepared to strike.

She was ungainly now, and slow, and Brynjar snarled, striking so quickly she barely had time to turn away. Kára felt the burn of steel slicing her side from the middle of her ribs down to her hip, and out of instinct she curled herself up around her middle, kicking her legs as she hit the ground to roll herself out of the way of another hit. 

And then with a roar Ubbe fell upon her uncle like a wolf, pinning him easily and wrenching the sword from his hands. Ivar was at her side, his large, warm hands pulling back the tunic to assess the damage. He could see little past the welling blood, but neither the whiteness of bone nor the strange glistening pink of organs sent off alarms in his head. A crew of the healers who marched with the army were upon them in an instant, and he relinquished his wife to their more experienced hands; with growled instructions to find him immediately should he be needed.

He slithered quickly to his brother and the traitorous bastard that dared harm his fierce Valkyrie and the child she bore. Ubbe moved aside for him without a word, and Ivar settled his weight on top of Brynjar. He leaned his face down so they were a mere breath apart.”You will die slowly and go to Hel. There will be no glory for you, and the last thing you see will be me.” He took the small knife from his belt and cut Brynjar's shirt in half, making sure to not slice into the skin. He did not want to ruin the carvings that would follow. 

When Brynjar's chest was bare before him, he did not hesitate. He carved the runes carefully, biting deep into the flesh. The sight and iron tang of the blood in his nose encouraged him. When he was finished, he cut off a piece of Brynjar's dirty tunic and used it to wipe the blood away. He inspected his work: “I am Brynjar, who betrayed my blood, my king, and my land. I died an inglorious death at the hands of King Ivar the Boneless.”

Satisfied, he licked the edge of his knife and looked down on Brynjar, scorn dripping from his voice. “All who look on you will know of your shame.” The blood continued to flow, and Ivar no longer bothered to wipe it away. He leaned forward again and drew the blade in deliberate strokes across Brynjar's forehead. His voice was calm and cool, but he spoke loudly to be heard over the other man's screams. “Of course this one burns the most, Brynjar. I am carving the name of your niece into your forehead. Now all will know who you betrayed. It will follow you even into the gloom of Hel. You may hide the carvings in your chest, but you cannot hide from this.” 

He sheathed his knife, watching as Brynjar frantically shook his head, trying to free himself from the stinging of blood in his eyes. “I will still have this kill, husband. You promised it to me.” His blue eyes left the dying man to find his wife beside him in her bloodstained tunic. Her face was pale but her voice was steady, her hazel eyes strong as they met his. 

“So I did, Kára.” He flipped the knife and held the handle toward her. She took it and grabbed her uncle's hand in a manner that could almost be considered tender. Slowly, she turned it palm up. The point of the knife kissed the bundle of veins at the base of the hand, and she increased the pressure until the hilt was halfway buried in her uncle's arm. Gritting her teeth, she ripped the skin from wrist to elbow before yanking the knife free and collapsing onto her knees.

Ivar gathered her in his arms, pulling her close into his chest, and drowned out the dying moans of her uncle with his own words whispered in her ear. “I am sorry it had to come to this, my Valkyrie.”

“I am not,” she answered simply. “I would choose you every time.” She leaned in to kiss him, but he placed a bloody finger on her lips to stop her. She licked it, and he moaned softly.

“The child?”

She shrugged, suddenly refusing to meet his eyes. “It is a shallow cut, but I have not felt any movement.” Blackness threatened to swallow him whole as she finally looked at him, the fear in her eyes mirroring the hollowness he felt in his stomach. He only pulled her against him, one hand clutching hers, the other resting on her stomach in a tense fist, waiting to feel something, anything, to let them know the child still lived.


	17. Chapter 17

Ivar had learned something about dramatic entrances from his wife, but apparently his still needed some work. It would've helped if he had a door to crash through; instead he settled for hurtling his ax past his brother's head. “What are you doing?” He roared, fury pounding in him like never before. Anger was his constant companion from childhood; the bitterness caused by his twisted legs, by having to prove himself a worthy son to his father, an intelligent ruler, and a brilliant strategist every single day he drew breath. Rage had shaped him, whispered in his ear even now, when he could control it. Anger made him strong, made him ruthless. Anger is what made him Ivar the Boneless, a king. 

Ivar thought he knew anger, but the beast writhing in his chest was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. Kára looked at him, lowering her sword, reddish brows raised in confusion. “Ivar? What's wrong?” Beautiful as she looked, as much as he loved her, all he could think in that moment was how his strong hand would look wrapped around her pretty little throat. These were impulses he hadn't experienced in many years, and he worked hard to push them back now, to be reasonable. She was clearly acting without sense here, so it was up to him to be the reasonable one. But it was so hard with the beast screaming in his ears, calling out to leave purple bruises on her pale skin, to punish her for disobeying his orders, for endangering his child.

And then her words registered in his anger-fogged brain, and he was so taken aback by her utter cluelessness, he could only sputter in response. He drew in a deep breath, gritting his teeth to compose himself. His hands were clenched in white-knuckled fists, one of which he slammed into the ground with enough force to make Ubbe wince. He was certain it would hurt later, but with that fury singing in his blood louder than a storm, he couldn't feel a thing. And despite his blood crying out to bruise her, as much as his fingers ached to wrap around her throat, he knew he would never be able to get away with that. She would gut him like a fish, but then, he always knew she would be the death of him. 

Those thoughts, the vision of her carrying him to Valhalla, were enough to calm him. His wild little Valkyrie, his beautiful wife, how could he ever think of harming her? Shame flashed through him, bringing him back to the present: to his sword-wielding, pregnant wife and his idiot brother.“Throw down your damn sword, woman! Why can't you stay in the hall and weave? Go into town and visit your friend Magnhild. Anything but this! Are you crazy, Kára?” He rounded on Ubbe. “How could you let her do this? She is with child, she can't be fighting! Look how big her belly is, how slowly she moves! You could kill her or the child!”

“You have so little faith in me, Ivar?” Ubbe asked, hurt, but Kára was ready for battle. She obeyed her husband's command, throwing her sword so that it landed point down in the dirt, quivering inches shy of his outstretched hand.

“And did you not see what happened with Brynjar? Do you not see the consequences of me not training? You will always have enemies, Ivar! Do you want me defenseless? If I had still been training, I could have dodged that blade! It is only by the grace of the Freyja that our child still lives!” She was breathing hard, auburn curls framing her flushed face where they escaped her braids. Her arms wrapped protectively around her distended middle, the child would be with them soon, maybe even before the next full moon. Ivar could see the fear in her hazel eyes and it nearly broke him in half.

“Min elskede,” he sighed. “You are with guards, with me, or with Ubbe at all hours. No harm will befall you or our child.” He paused, meeting her eyes, letting her see the anger that simmered in his depths. She alone didn't fear that part of him; she met the anger in him with the same steel she showed in the shield wall. She sat slowly in front of him, running her finger along the blade still sticking out of the ground.

“You do not understand what it is to feel helpless,” she told him quietly. One hand still rested on her belly, rubbing it in circles. Ivar couldn't help the laugh that escaped his lips.

“Your words are ridiculous, Kára, how do you think I felt as a child? As a young man, watching my father be given to his death? Returning home to Kattegat, and finding my mother murdered? I know better than any how it feels to be helpless.”

“You are the one who taught me turn weakness into strength.” Kára met his eyes, raised her hand from her belly to run her fingers through his well-groomed black beard. He relaxed into her touch as she rubbed along his strong jawline, eyes half-closing in contentment. “So that is what I am doing. Carrying your child, while the greatest joy of my life, makes me vulnerable. I will not risk our child again. I am a shieldmaiden, Ivar, and a queen. We will always have enemies, maybe even within our own household. I trust no guard. I only battle your brother because I know he will not purposely run me through.”

Angry as Ivar had been when he found them, he couldn't deny that her reasoning made sense. But there was still one thing he didn't like. “Why do you not fight with me, then?”

She laughed, and he knew all was forgiven. Relief replaced his anger so quickly it made him giddy. “Because I knew you would not approve. You would need to be angry at me first.” She looked at the ground before meeting his bright blue eyes again, almost shy. “I have no great skill with the bow, but I know you are a marksman without equal. Will you teach me?”

He grinned, pulling her into his lap for a deep kiss. He felt her grin against his lips, and knew that home with her was sweeter than Valhalla could ever be. He broke the kiss and settled her so her back rested against his chest. His arms wrapped around her possessively, hands resting on her stomach. A sharp jab against his palm made Kára groan lightly. “This child will be a warrior. Already his blows are stronger than some grown men.”

Ivar increased the pressure of his hand, hoping to earn another jolt. Instead he felt the Kára's entire belly shift as the baby squirmed to get away from his hand. He laughed, finished teasing the baby, and removed the gauntlet from his wrist to give it to his wife. Her clever fingers did the buckles up quickly while Ivar pulled an arrow from his quiver. “Nock it,” Ivar commanded gently.

She nestled the arrow into place against the bow. “Good, min elskede. When you draw the bow back, place your cheek along the shaft of the arrow, so you are looking at the arrowhead. Simply line it up with where you want it to go. That tree, there.” He pointed. She raised the bow, tilted, and Ivar shook his head. “Hold the bow straight and the arrow will fly straight.” He reached to her wrists, corrected the placement of her hand along the curve of the bow, showed her how to hold it straight.

She was a willing, eager little student, and Ivar felt a glimmer of pride as the arrow thudded into the tree. “I will make an archer of you yet, min elskede.” He planted a kiss onto the back of her neck, heard the little moan that drew from her sweet lips, and couldn't help but smile.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar's world changes in a single moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again and again to my wonderful beta, shesafreesoul on Tumblr. Thank you for all your brilliant help and guidance, and for sharing this amazing idea with me in the first place! Thank you so much for giving me the chance to write the story in your head. I hope I was able to do it justice!

Even in the iron grip of childbirth she was fearless, sweaty auburn hair pulled back into the same braids she wore to the shield wall. Ivar found himself thinking maybe battle was easier than this. They were faster, at least, or maybe it was just the bloodlust that made them seem so. Either way, Ivar's patience—what little he possessed—was wearing thin.

Kára's, though, seemed infinite. Watching her work to bring forth his child was something he would never forget, not until the Valkyries closed his eyes. First had come the small pains, in the dark of the early morning, and he'd rubbed her back until they subsided and she fell into a restless sleep. It had been nearly a full day since then, and the midwife finally allowed her to kneel. Ivar knew it couldn't be much longer now—how did women survive such things? He'd heard the story of his own birth before, knew how close he'd come to killing his mother, and muttered another quiet plea to Freyja. 

Her screams as she brought the child forth were primal as a wolf's howl, and when she'd fallen silent, there was a new sound in the room. Small, squalling cries and Kára's voice, hoarse from screaming, singing softly. Ivar was almost afraid to approach, to interrupt the scene laid out before him. 

Kára was resting on her knees, tired and triumphant as she cradled the tiny, crying bundle to her chest. It was something sacred, the look on her pale, sweaty face as she beheld her child for the first time. Fear slithered into his chest, cold and unwelcome. There was no place for him here, not when Kára looked at someone else with all the love in the world in her wild eyes. She did not need him, not the way he needed her. What would he become without his little Valkyrie?

And then she turned those wild eyes to his and all his doubts evaporated. “Ivar,” her voice was raspy and weary, but her smile was radiant joy. “Come meet your daughter.” Ivar crawled to them as fast as his arms would bring him. He settled himself on the floor beside them and pulled Kára into his lap. She nestled against his broad chest and Ivar rested his head on her shoulder, gazing down at his daughter for the first time. The fierce blue of his own eyes looked back up at him, and his only disappointment was the darkness of his daughter's hair.

…..

After what feels like ages of pain, the absence of it is enough to make her giddy. The sound of her child's first cry is sweeter than the her name falling from Ivar's lips, sweeter than the half-remembered lullaby her mother used to sing her. It is husband's love and mother's song and father's storytelling in one small voice. She is the sound of the wind in a winter storm and the spring tides breaking on the shore. She is life. She is Ivar's. She is Viking, conceived on a field amid the slain and brought forth by a woman who moves mountains when she sets her mind to it. But most importantly, she is hers. 

A new voice, hoarse and crooning, joins the angry little cries. Kára is shocked to realize it is hers, that she is the one singing. For half a second she thought it was her mother. Throughout the long months of carrying the child, Kára lived with a secret, gnawing fear. It was not constant, coming to her only in the moments when she was still. When the sword in her hand was not enough to hold her to the earth. When Ivar's voice did not crawl over her skin like his loving hands. The fear is gone when she hears herself singing. She will learn how to be a mother. Women have been mothering through the ages. She can do it, too. 

Her hair is black as night and is the first thing Kára notices after the cry. Her hands are shaking with exhaustion, Ivar wants her to get into the bed but she stays kneeling. This is much more important. That black hair is damp beneath her fingers but she can imagine the way it will feel when it is dry, soft and thick as Ivar's. She can imagine herself braiding that soft black hair, gently working the knots out with her fingers. She runs one tentative finger down the slope of her daughter's button nose. 

The eyes open at the touch, blue and bright, piercing her like an arrow. Ivar's eyes in her daughter's face, the same eyes that wounded her that day in her father's hall when she slammed open the door like a storm. It is funny sometimes the way that life circles back around. Once she had thought those eyes held only death, the promise of Valhalla in their brilliant depths. Now they are life begun anew. 

Her fingers, more confident now, trail down the rest of the small body. The arms, the hands that will one day wield the sword Ivar gave her at their wedding. How can a child born of them be anything but fierce? The perfect little legs. Ivar is beside her, watching all this, she hears his relieved sigh when the legs kick at her touch. Untwisted, and even if they were not Kára would love her just the same. There are no limits on her love, it is deep and boundless as the unexplored ocean. 

She guides the whimpering girl to her breast. The pain of it sharp and unexpected, a small needle in her bliss, but it soon fades into the background. She is sitting on the floor now, swaying in her exhaustion. Ivar is exasperated, she can hear him huff in annoyance as it becomes clear she is not moving to the bed. She just keeps forgetting. Where she sits is so insignificant compared to what she holds in her arms, her husband's annoyance is almost laughable. 

Finally she allows the midwife to guide her to the bed and she is glad of the woman's arm around her waist because her shaking legs make her nervous. She is not accustomed to feeling weak. She settles against the pillows, sleeping daughter nestled carefully in the crook of her arm. She fits there perfectly. The bed creaks as Ivar joins them and Kára leans against the broad, muscular expanse of his chest. 

Their eyes meet, blue and hazel, ocean and winter storms coming together. Ivar smiles, running his hand through the fraying auburn war-braids. She is so beautiful in this moment, holding his flawless firstborn. The love rushing through him leaves room for nothing else, for no one else but his little wild women. He leans forward, kissing her with tenderness he never knew he possessed. One hand rests on his daughter's back, protective. 

…..

She is flawless, all he ever wanted but never believed he could have. It is a rare moment of stillness. Her chest rises and falls like the slow certainty of tides, and Ivar finds that it takes his own breath away. It's late, the fire little more than glowing embers that cast fitful shadows dancing over Kára's skin. He remembers the feel of her flesh beneath his fingers as she dropped off to sleep; the soft, damp cloth in his hands as he washed away the sweat and blood of her labor.

Ivar had known she was formidable, had seen her take lives without a thought. Watched her swing a sword, an unbearable hardness growing in his trousers as the blood of doomed men sprayed across her ferocious, beautiful face. And Ivar had thought, in those moments, that surely the gods smiled on him. He knew now that was true. Her ferocity on the battlefield was paltry compared to the steel she'd shown today. Ivar often thought of himself as iron, he believed the hardness of his heart compensated for the softness of his legs. 

He wants to touch her, to run his fingers through her hair and ghost his hands over the pale expanse of her skin. He doesn't because she needs to rest. Kára is a woman of war but she has earned this small moment of peace, and he will not rob her of it. Sometimes he still worries he robbed her of the joy of killing him. Sometimes he still wishes he could give that to her, just like he wanted to on that day they fought within the hazel rods. It is a strange impulse, but he never has been able to deny her anything. If he is iron, she is a forge. 

His fingers are itching for her skin; he is so intent on admiring her that the small wail from the cradle beside the bed startles him. Kára's eyes fly open at the sound, her body jerking into wakefulness. Ivar is already picking up their daughter, murmuring soft things to her. When he'd seen Ubbe holding his first child—a son—he'd laughed, mocking him for the way he melted in the presence of the tiny boy. Ubbe had been so at peace he hadn't even seemed to notice, and Ivar suddenly wished he could take his teasing back. It is strange what thoughts come when the world shifts on its axis.

Ivar brings his daughter to his bare chest and she snuggles in there, eyes still closed, bobbing her head in search of her mother's breast. Kára holds her arms out and Ivar hands the child over. The small mewling noises cease and all Ivar can do is watch in amazement. He does not know if this feeling of wonder will ever leave him, but he hopes that it won't. His younger self would sneer. His younger self would consider him weak now. Ivar knows the truth now, because the miracle of aging is the gaining of wisdom. Forges only make iron stronger.

When Ingrid finishes nursing Ivar is quick to take her, to bring her again to his bare chest. The little girl sighs in contentment and burrows against him. “Sleep,” Ivar whispers to Kára. “I will wake you if she needs you.” She is too tired to protest, pulling the furs up around her chest again and tangling her legs with his. Her breathing slows in the space of a few heartbeats. 

His daughter is warm and sleepy on his chest, his wife is sleeping like the calm after a storm, and his heart is full to bursting. 

He never meant for this to happen. Never intended for home to become two people instead of a place but he would trade them for nothing. He no longer cares if his name echoes through the ages, as long as his name falls from Kára's mouth with love, as long as the little girl in his arms will look at him with his own eyes in her small face. When he led his army into this small kingdom, he knew he was riding to his destiny. He just didn't know that his destiny had hair like autumn leaves and moved with all the wildness of the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a wild ride, thank you so much for the support and encouragement, and thank you for sticking with us until the end! We hope you loved Ivar and Kára as much as we did.


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